


Under Development

by dr_girlfriend



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Book Nerd Derek Hale, Environmentalism, Everyone Is Alive, Fluff, Full Shift Werewolves, Lawyer Derek Hale, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nerd Derek Hale, Or at least Werewolves Are a Poorly-Kept Secret, POV Derek Hale, Rich Stiles Stilinski, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stilinski Family Feels, Two Weeks' Notice AU, Wolf Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-09-28 12:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10100087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend/pseuds/dr_girlfriend
Summary: Environmental lawyer Derek Hale is determined to stop the planned defacement of his beloved Beacon Hills Preserve by the mammoth Starr Development company.  To do so, he makes a deal with the devil himself — Stiles Starr, the brash young scion of the Starr family and COO of Starr Development.  Derek hates Stiles at first sight.  Mieczysław Stilinski, on the other hand, is someone that Derek could grow to like...or even love._Excerpt:“I have a proposition for you, Derek Hale,” Stiles interrupted.  He was lounging in the corner of the car, head lolled back to expose the smooth, pale line of his mole-dotted throat.  The man had a werewolf bodyguard, there’s no way he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.“I’m not sleeping with you,” Derek blurted out, not entirely sure which of them he was trying to convince.Instead of taking offense, Stiles’ eyes crinkled in amusement.  “That’s not what I was proposing,” he said evenly.  “Not that I — or anyone with eyes — would turn you down.  I mean, you’re hot like burning with this whole naughty librarian vibe you have going on, but I had a different...positionin mind.”





	1. The Notification

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BFive0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BFive0/gifts).



> This is written for Tumblr user @stileslovesderek, AO3 user Bfive0, who won a fic from me in the Fandom Trumps Hate auction. The auction was for 5k words, but this fic is going to clock in well over 20k, because I'm me and cannot keep within a word count to save my life. 
> 
> They asked for a Sterek Two Weeks' Notice AU, although I would consider it to be very loosely based on that movie, as I took a great deal of liberties with the general plotline to make it fit the characters (and crammed in a whole bunch of Stilinski Family Feels). ;-) There is some indiscriminate flirting on Stiles' part but hopefully nothing sexual harrassment-y.
> 
> I think most AU elements are pretty obvious in the first few chapters, but to avoid confusion let me just say that for the purposes of this fic Allison is not an Argent. As usual with my AUs, I didn't want to leave her out but her relationship to canon Kate is too complicated to explain away for a background character. All non-Sterek pairings are background. I'll be posting one chapter a week. Huge thanks to eeyore9990 for the beta.

Derek had been having an ideal night.  He was already home in his comfiest sweats, eating cashew chicken directly from the delivery container with chopsticks, and had just reached an absolutely riveting moment in the Madeleine Albright autobiography he was reading. 

When the phone on his coffee table chimed, he managed to ignore it for a few long moments before guilt started to eat away at him.  What if someone in his family was trying to get in touch with him? Sure, his parents or Laura would call, but his younger siblings were addicted to texting no matter how many times he told them that it just wasn’t the same as hearing their voices.

He tried to use one socked foot to tip the phone up enough so he could see the screen, cursing as it started to slide to the floor instead and he had to make a sudden grab for it.  The chopsticks spilled out of the Chinese food container onto the hardwood, and Derek looked woefully at them for a moment, wondering if the five second rule still applied when he probably hadn’t mopped in weeks.

With a sigh, he thumped the container down on the coffee table, thumbing his phone screen to life as he wandered toward the kitchen for a fork.  Just a stupid email, he should have turned off those Google alerts long ago, it’s not like he _really_ cared what happened in Beacon Hills anymore...

Derek stopped in his tracks, leaning against the kitchen counter as he scrolled down through the story.  Usually these alerts were just random small-town happenings.  A restaurant closing, a benefit for the volunteer fire department.  This time, though...by the time he got midway through the article, he was already tapping over to his contacts to call his mother.

“Derek, darling!  How are you!”

Derek leaned against the kitchen counter, his Chinese food forgotten.  “I’m okay, Mom.  I just saw something from the Beacon Hill Gazette, though.  About new development on the edge of the Preserve?”

Derek could hear kitchen sounds in the background, his dad no doubt putting the finishing touches on dinner, the clatter of dishes and scraping of chairs as Cora and Cameron, both home from college for the summer, set the table.

“Oh, yes, someone told me something about that.  Some kind of...what was it?”

“Conference center and corporate retreat,” Derek parroted from the article.

“Yes, that was it.  They must have combined quite a few parcels of land for something like that.”

“Including _ours_.”  The words came out more bitterly than Derek had intended, and he heard his mother’s sharp intake of breath.

The line clicked over as his mother took him off speaker, obviously moving into her study.  Derek imagined her there, surrounded by her law books in the well-appointed house in San Francisco that had never quite felt like home to him.

“Derek, I thought you understood when we told you we were letting that land go,” Talia said gently.  “We are happy where we are, and none of you children expressed any interest in settling back in Beacon Hills.”

“I know.”  Derek felt his cheeks warm, knowing he had sounded like a sulky teenager.  “It’s just — it doesn’t seem right.  The land where we grew up, where we had our full moon runs, and now it’s going to be some huge corporate complex.”

“I don’t know that it will be all that bad,” Talia said diplomatically.  “The Preserve is and will always be protected land.  This will just be...nearby.  Derek, why are you so upset by this?”

Derek swallowed, leaning his elbows against the kitchen counter, hunching in on himself.  “It’s my fault,” he whispered.  “If I —”

 _“Derek Hale.”_  His mother’s voice was firm.  “What happened in Beacon Hills was not and will never be your fault.  Yes, it was awful for all of us, most of all for you, but we got through it.  Kate Argent is in jail, we all lived, and even Peter has recovered fully.  And none of us blame you for a second.  Bigots have and always will exist, and it was our unfortunate luck to be targeted by one, but none of it was your fault.  Okay?”

“Okay, mom.”  Derek swallowed jaggedly, wishing he could have the same certainty as his mother did.  “I love you.”

“I love you too, darling.”  Derek heard his dad’s voice in the distance, calling his mother to dinner.  “Come for dinner soon, okay?  I need to see that adorable face.”

“Okay.”  Derek hung up the phone, lost in thought for a long moment before he shook himself, filling up a glass of water and grabbing a fork before settling back on the couch.  He absently chewed the Chinese food, now gone cold and gummy, as his thoughts circled endlessly.

As comforting as his mom’s reassurances were, Derek hadn’t and probably would never be fully able to believe them.  If he hadn’t fallen for Kate’s pretty smile and smoky voice, if he hadn’t told her the code to the front door and exactly when his family wouldn’t — and would — be home, she never would have been able to burn the house. 

Thank God he hadn’t mentioned the tunnels.  It was the only reason they had escaped with their lives.  It was bad enough, losing the house and all their possessions, Peter critically injured from burns that were so infused with wolfsbane smoke that his werewolf healing could not compensate.  The move to San Francisco was supposed to be a fresh start — far from Beacon Hills, where everybody knew the sad story, and close to the major medical center where Peter could get specialized treatment. 

If Derek had been a little bit less naive, a little bit less gullible, he would have realized that a beautiful adult woman had no reason to be truly interested in a socially awkward teenager with bunny teeth and giant ears. 

He would have been able to do _something_ different, avoid the disaster, and even now maybe his family would have still been living there, safe and happy on the edge of the beautiful Preserve that they had loved so much.  The place where Derek had first learned to love nature, with a fierce passion that would guide his life’s work.

It wasn’t right.  Just the thought of bulldozers rumbling across that land, explosive charges shaking the trees and scaring the wildlife as they carved out the foundation for some giant glass-and-steel monstrosity in the place where the gracious Hale house had once stood — it made Derek sick to his stomach.  It wasn’t _right_ , and Derek was going to stop it.

He nodded once to himself, pulling his laptop onto his knees and pushing his reading glasses further up his nose, and began his research.  Three hours later, he was booking a flight to New York City.

Save


	2. The Proposition

Derek recognized the man immediately from one of the many glossy magazine spreads he had pulled up on his computer.  He was even more beautiful in person than he had been in the photographs — his golden-amber eyes bright and rimmed with dark lashes, his mouth pink and lush as he appeared to talk a mile a minute, the scattering of moles only emphasizing the beauty of his luminous skin.  Derek hated him on sight.

In comparison to the brash, mocking expression he typically adopted in the photographs, the man in person was all motion — his face mobile and expressive, long-fingered hands waving through the air to emphasize whatever he was saying.  

As Derek watched, the man he was apparently giving orders to nodded and turned back toward the building, and Stiles Starr walked toward his limousine, fingers dancing across the screen of his phone.  Derek saw his opportunity and pounced.

“Mr. Starr?  If I could just have a moment of your time.”

Stiles’ head snapped up, his eyes quickly assessing Derek before taking a second, longer look, taking no care to hide his appreciation as Derek nervously tugged down the hem of his cardigan.

“A guy like you?  You could have me all night.”

Derek felt his mouth drop open in shock.  He snapped it shut, hating the blush he could feel coloring his cheekbones.  “Very complimentary, but I only need a few minutes of your time.  My name is Derek Hale, I’m an attorney, and…”

Derek could see the moment Stiles’ lascivious interest turned to dismissal.  “If I’m getting sued for the millionth time, just contact my Chief Counsel.  Or, you know, you can when I’ve hired a new one, since they seem to last as long as mayflies around here.”  He waved a hand at Derek, before going back to tapping at his phone.  “Just send the papers along.  Are you new at this?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, walking toward the car without looking and sliding right into the backseat as the floppy-haired chauffeur held the door open for him.

“Wait!”  Derek made a dive as the door was closing, sliding in after him as Stiles startled away in an uncoordinated flail of limbs.  “I’m not suing you, I just need to talk to you about your Beacon Hills project —”  He fumbled through his papers, looking for the map he had prepared...

“It’s okay, Scotty.”  Stiles addressed this comment over Derek’s shoulder.  Derek turned his head and realized the chauffeur was glaring at him murderously, eyes flashing red.  Christ, of course someone like Mr. Starr would have a bodyguard.  Derek carefully held up his hands, showing that he was holding nothing but papers, and flashed his eyes gold in acknowledgement of the alpha.  

“What do you want?” Stiles said curtly.  His gaze was sharp and assessing, and Derek quailed a little under the intent focus.  He was nothing like the brainless party boy Derek had expected from the magazine photos.

Derek swallowed nervously, pushing his reading glasses up higher on his nose.  “As I said, I am an attorney, with a specialty in environmental law.  I want to talk to you about the environmental impact of your planned corporate center in Beacon Hills on the delicate ecosystem of the Preserve.  You see here, I have prepared a figure to delineate the scope and the number of species of wildlife that will likely be affected, and — are you even listening to me?”

Stiles was back to tapping at his phone, not even casting a glance at Derek’s meticulously prepared materials.

“We’ve already conducted our own environmental impact study, as you no doubt know if you’re even a halfway competent attorney.”  Derek sputtered in indignation, unable to formulate a response as Stiles blithely continued.  “And you are more than that, aren’t you?  Harvard Law, third in your class…”

Derek leaned over, catching a glimpse of a picture of himself in whatever Stiles was scrolling through on his phone.  “What —”

Stiles continued, talking right over him.  “Specialized in environmental law, but you’re well-versed in property and real estate law, aren’t you?  I knew I recognized your name.  You helped obtain landmark status for the Bourdette Building in San Francisco last June, didn’t you?  I had my eye on that one…”

Derek’s eyes narrowed.  “You didn’t find all that on Google.”

Stiles grinned widely.  “I have my own methods of accessing information.”  He knocked twice on the partition separating the back of the limousine from the driver.  “Let’s roll out, Scotty.”

Derek startled as the car lurched into motion, the sheaf of papers in his hand falling to the seat between them as he scrambled for his seatbelt.  “I — I left my car back there…”

Stiles rolled his eyes, snatching up the papers.  “I’ll call you an Uber,” he muttered as he flipped through them, eyes scanning over each page so quickly Derek was sure that he couldn’t be absorbing half the information.

Derek grabbed his precious papers back, smoothing them down nervously and re-adjusting the binder clip.  “If I could just show you —”

“I have a proposition for you, Derek Hale,” Stiles interrupted.  He was lounging in the corner of the car, head lolled back to expose the smooth, pale line of his mole-dotted throat.  The man had a werewolf bodyguard, there’s no way he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.

“I’m not sleeping with you,” Derek blurted out, not entirely sure which of them he was trying to convince.

Instead of taking offense, Stiles’ eyes crinkled in amusement.  “That’s not what I was proposing,” he said evenly.  “Not that I — or anyone with eyes — would turn you down.  I mean, you’re hot like burning with this whole naughty librarian vibe you have going on, but I had a different... _position_ in mind.”

Derek was still trying to wrap his mind around the whole ‘naughty librarian’ thing, looking down at his cardigan in confusion when Stiles leaned in, a wicked smile spreading slowly across his face.  His voice dropped to a low, seductive purr.  “Derek Hale, I want you…”  Derek held his breath, his attention focused raptly on the words coming out of Stiles’ lush pink mouth.  “...as my Chief Counsel.”

Derek realized he had leaned in as well, his face so close to Stiles’ that he could feel the man’s warm breath against his lips.  “Your...what?”

“My Chief Counsel.”  Stiles leaned back, smirking, his legs spreading a bit more obscenely wide in the enclosed space, drawing his slim-cut suit pants taut across his thighs.  Derek tore his eyes away, scowling down at the papers in his hands, trying to marshal his thoughts.

“I’m not going to work for you!” Derek finally managed.  How had this man gotten him turned around so quickly?  Maybe it was _Stiles_ who was confused.  “I’m _opposing_ you,” Derek clarified earnestly.

“I get it.”  Stiles’ attention was back on his phone again, long fingers tapping nimbly across the screen.  “You don’t want my corporate retreat and conference center to be built.  Never mind the convenience to San Francisco — it’s just a matter of time until they put in a high speed rail line, you know — and the boost to the local economy, the increase in tourism, the —”

“The defacing of some of the most beautiful land in Northern California?” Derek cut in angrily.  “Why would you even —”  He pulled in a frustrated breath.  “Build your center somewhere _else_ ,” he said firmly.  “Why in Beacon Hills?”

Stiles looked up sharply for a moment, but then shrugged, resuming his tapping at his phone.  “People want to get away, commune with nature.  It’s very trendy right now.”

 _“Trendy!”_  Derek couldn’t help his scandalized tone of voice.  “Nature isn’t _trendy_.  It’s … it’s vital, and engaging, and _transformative_ , and...and...and _how_ is it communing with nature to sit in a conference room all day, anyway?”

Stiles shrugged again.  No wonder his shoulders were so wide on his lanky frame, with all the exercise they got.  “There’ll be windows.  Big windows.”  He looked thoughtful.  “Maybe we’ll even train up some deer to put on a little show, for the full effect.  Although, animatronic deer would probably be more cost-effective in the long run.  I gotta call the guys at Disney, see how much something like that would run us…”

“Animatronic... _deer!”_  Derek could feel his fangs lengthening, prying apart his gritted teeth.  He was so furious he almost missed the little curl developing at the corner of Stiles’ mouth.  “You’re teasing me,” he realized, fangs retreating back into his gums.

“A little bit,” Stiles grinned.  “About the animatronic deer, not the Chief Counsel position.  I was dead serious about that.”

“Why would you...and why would _I_ …”

Stiles finally tore his eyes away from his phone, flipping it over and over in his palms as he focused his attention on Derek.  “I need a new Chief Counsel.  Someone with half a brain for once, and even more so, someone with a _spine_.  Someone who will stand up to me, and tell me if I’m crossing the line from regular asshole-me to being a total irredeemable dick.  That’s why I want you.  And as for why you’ll take the job — and trust me, Derek, you _will_ take the job — well, it’s as simple as this.”

Stiles pulled a pen from the breast pocket of his impeccably tailored suit jacket — a Montblanc, of course.  He unerringly flipped to the page in Derek’s sheaf of papers that showed the artist’s rendering of the planned corporate center.  With quick, bold strokes of his pen Stiles sketched something else.

Derek leaned in closer, reluctantly fascinated.  Stiles was drawing a new building, much smaller than the giant corporate center, and harmoniously in tune with the surrounding forest.  In neat block letters, Stiles labeled the new building.  “Hale Center for Environmental Education.”

“That’s why you flew across the country, isn’t it?” Stiles asked.  “Maybe you hadn’t figured it out yet yourself, but this is what you were hoping for when you dove into my limo.”

“How did you —”  Derek brushed a reverent finger across the drawing.  “It’s beautiful.”

Stiles’ expression softened, looking genuinely proud instead of smug for just a brief moment.

“Don’t sound so surprised.  I majored in architecture, and Derek —”  Derek leaned in closer, caught in Stiles’ intent gaze.  “I was _first_ in _my_ class.”  Stiles smiled again — a sharp, predatory baring of his teeth.  “I always win.”

Derek startled as the car door opened behind him.  

“This is where you catch your Uber,” Stiles said dismissively, turning his attention back to his ever-present phone.  “See you at the office on Monday.”

Before he knew it, Derek was standing by the side of the avenue, watching the limo drive away, and wondering exactly when he had lost control over his own life.


	3. The Mistake

Three days later, Derek stood in front of the Starr Development building once again, staring up at it in dismay.  He hadn’t really paid much attention to the building before, being too focused on looking out for the man himself, but now that he was taking it all in he realized it was _hideous_.  

Well, the skyscraper itself was not so bad, pretty standard Manhattan fare.  It was more the giant gold letters taking up several stories of the top floors, emblazoning STARR so vividly across the skyline that Derek was sure it could be seen from New Jersey.  But then again, that was probably the point.

“What am I _doing_ here?” Derek mumbled.  Everyone at home had thought he was crazy.  His friends, Boyd and Erica, even his parents and siblings — everyone had told him he would be miserable in New York City.  But the contract that had arrived in his email only a few hours after he had met Stiles Starr — and how Stiles had obtained his personal email address he didn’t even _want_ to know — had been about so much more than just the Beacon Hills project.  

It wasn’t just the hefty six-figure salary, or even the preservation of the land in Beacon Hills.  The scope of Derek’s new duties would be unbelievable — the ability to weigh in on multiple Starr Development projects, to reduce environmental impact and champion green construction.  With that kind of latitude, Derek could promote energy- and resource-efficient sustainable architecture across the whole worldwide organization.  His conscience would never allow him to turn down something like that.

And Stiles must have known it.  From the moment Derek hesitantly gave his name to the security guard at the front desk, he was immediately absorbed into the corporate machine.  Derek was whisked away to fill out page after page of employment and nondisclosure paperwork, presented with a badge and a fancier laptop than he had ever laid eyes on as well as a company mobile phone, and shown to a giant corner office with his name already on the door.  

Derek sat in a desk chair that felt like sitting on a puffy pink angel cloud, looked across the surface of his giant shiny desk at the absolutely stupendous view out his corner windows, and felt uncomfortably like he had sold his soul to the devil.

The new mobile phone on his desk buzzed, lighting up with a text from one of the preset contacts — the only one he actually recognized.

_Stiles:  Settling in?_

“Speak of the devil…” Derek muttered.

“...and he appears.”  Derek jumped as Stiles materialized in his doorway.  

“Werewolf-friendly construction,” Stiles volunteered with a grin.  “The carpeting minimizes footsteps, and the walls are soundproofed.  It’s a new initiative of mine.  What do you think?”

“It will...take some getting used to.”

“Everything worth having does.”  Stiles threw himself into the chair across the desk, lounging back as if he were ready to make it his second home.  “So, how are you settling in?”

“I _literally_ just got here.”

“I meant in New York, dumbass.”  

Derek stared.  Calling your Chief Counsel ‘dumbass’ didn’t seem very professional, but somehow Stiles had said it with such affection that it was hard to take offense.  

“Do you have a place to live?” Stiles clarified.

“Not yet.  I’m crashing with some friends of my parents this week, and figured this weekend I’d find a place and then get my stuff shipped —”

“On it,” Stiles interrupted.  “Give me the address, I’ll have Scotty pick up your stuff and get you settled in at The Grand.  That’s where I live.  It’ll be easier if you’re close by.”

“You live in a hotel?”  And not just a hotel, but the swankiest hotel in Manhattan.  It must cost him a fortune, and Derek found himself scowling at the thought of that wastefulness.

“Starr Development owns it, and I live there.”  Stiles grinned.  “My life is very much like Monopoly.  Think I can bring back the top hat and monocle?”

Derek’s scowl deepened as he involuntarily and inexplicably found himself picturing Stiles in a top hat and...nothing else.  He reined in his errant thoughts, trying to work through the risks and benefits of Stiles’ offer.  Well, it was more of a _command_ , but Derek was realizing that was just the way Stiles worked.

“It _would_ be easier to not have to apartment-hunt right away…” he found himself saying aloud.   _Especially if this job doesn’t work out_ , he thought.  

Stiles leapt to his feet, smacking the surface of the desk in satisfaction.  “Great, it’s settled.  Now, I have a very important task for you.”  He started tapping at his phone again, and Derek’s phone chimed with an incoming email.

Derek sat up straighter, pushing his reading glasses up his nose.  “Absolutely.  I’ve been reading over the company’s annual reports for the last few years, and I’ve asked for a dossier of upcoming development projects…”  His words trailed off as he opened up the email, staring at the details in confusion.  “A _comic book?!”_

“Not just any comic book,” Stiles scoffed.  “Amazing Fantasy number _fifteen_ ,” he said, staring at Derek as if that should mean something.

Derek stared back at him blankly, and Stiles shook his head in apparent disgust.  “It’s the first comic featuring Spider-Man.  Written by Stan Lee, drawn by Steve Ditko, with a cover by Jack Kirby?  Ringing any bells?”  Stiles’ voice was climbing higher and louder with every word.

Derek shook his head.

“Philistine.” Stiles pulled in a deep breath and sighed it out, as if unable to cope with Derek’s ignorance.  “Anyway, it’s been listed for auction and I want to nab it before it goes up.  Sound them out, but I’ll pay up to two million to make sure that Jackson Whittemore doesn’t get it.”

“Two million... _dollars?”_

Stiles flailed in agitation at Derek’s incomprehension, the image of the brash, overconfident businessman supplanted by that of an aggravated teenager.  

“Just get it done,” Stiles snapped, a blotchy flush coloring his cheeks as he seemed to pull his body under control with an effort.  He zoomed out the door of Derek’s office, and Derek was just catching his breath when Stiles popped his head back in.

“And send me the address for your stuff!” Stiles barked.  “I hate having to repeat myself!”  Without waiting for an answer he was gone again, and Derek leaned back in the desk chair and closed his eyes.  

He had made a terrible mistake.


	4. The Figurehead

It had been almost three weeks, and working at Starr Development _should_ have been the job of Derek’s dreams.  On paper, it was everything he wanted.  He was having a huge impact on the environment at an international level, spearheading cutting-edge initiatives that would demonstrate once and for all that sustainable architecture was not just beautiful and moral, but even profitable.  And yet...when Derek had taken the position, he hadn’t quite realized that it would come with so much... _Stiles_.

“Derek!  A very important decision.  Which stationery do you prefer?  White linen, or Tuscan eggshell?”

“Derek!  Which tie do you like?  Do you think this one is too bold?  It’s too bold, isn’t it?  But pink is the new orange…”

“Derek!  Back me up here.  This guy online is saying that Quicksilver is more important to the Avengers universe, whereas _clearly_ X-Men universe Quicksilver is a more fully-developed character…”

Sure, sometimes the things Stiles asked of him were actually related to his job, but more and more Stiles just seemed to seek Derek out for the smallest reason, asking his input on every little life decision.  It was infuriating.  Or flattering.  Or, maybe...both.

Derek had meetings with Stiles.  Derek had lunch with Stiles.  Derek accompanied Stiles in the limousine to and from the hotel, and stood at his side at parties and benefits, feeding him the names of people he could certainly have remembered from the last event if he would just apply his mind to caring.  And eventually, Stiles started popping in to Derek’s room at the hotel as casually and incessantly as he popped into his office, his fresh, gingery scent working its way into every soft furnishing in the room.

Stiles was ever-present, and wherever Stiles was, he seemed to take up the whole room.  He was constantly talking — ideas and trivia and queries flowing in a never-ending stream from his pink lips.  He was constantly in motion as well, either tapping away on his phone, drumming his fingers on the nearest surface, or doodling with his Montblanc pen in a little notebook that he kept in his breast pocket and never let anyone see.  

Derek never seemed to have a moment to himself.  Even his days off were filled with texts from Stiles, or calls from Stiles, or even just reminders of Stiles everywhere he went.  

He would stop at a coffee shop and think of that time Stiles had sent him ten blocks away for the “perfect” cinnamon roll.  Of course, that thought was immediately followed by the memory of Stiles getting icing all over his face as he practically shoved the whole thing in his mouth at once, making the most obscene noises.  

Derek would pass a shop window and think about that time Stiles had spent a solid half hour holding different scarves up to his face, asking Derek which one made his eyes “pop,” like Derek even knew what that meant.  Because, really, Stiles’ eyes were always amazing, with that unique amber-gold coloring that changed from moment to moment depending on the light...

Derek couldn’t figure Stiles out.  He went to at least five parties or charity events every week, with what seemed to be a different companion every time — men and women of every ethnicity and nationality, werewolf or human, curvy or willowy or muscular — _everyone_ seemed to be Stiles’ type.  And yet, for a man constantly surrounded by people, Stiles seemed to Derek to be...lonely.  

And there was yet another issue.  Stiles seemed wholeheartedly behind Derek’s innovations within the company, but still every now and again, something would get nixed for no apparent reason.  

The first time Derek assumed it was an oversight, but when he brought it up with Stiles, his expression just grew tight.  “That one’s not negotiable,” he had said, and that was all there was to it.  After the second, and then third time, Derek finally snapped.

“What does that even _mean_ , it’s not negotiable!?  You’re the _boss_ , your name is on the _skyscraper_ , who do you have to negotiate _with?”_

“I’m _not_ the boss,” Stiles snarled back.  “And that’s _not_ my name on this fucking skyscraper.  I’m just the COO.  I thought you were a better researcher than that.”

“What?”

Stiles huffed, scowling down angrily at his phone.  “You haven’t been here long enough, give it time.  He’ll be in the office on the first of the month like clockwork, stomping through the hallways to put the fear of God into all the employees.”

“You mean —”  Of course Derek had heard of Stan Starr, the old man’s gloomy portrait was hanging on every third wall.  “I thought he was just a figurehead.”

Stiles snorted.  “ _I’m_ the figurehead,” he said, his voice carefully nonchalant even while his scent clouded with bitterness.  “Grandfather still has controlling interest in the company.  He has no interest in the charity events and the magazine spreads and the day-to-day operations, so that’s what I’m for.  But he still decides where and when the money gets spent, and every once in awhile he’ll weigh in on something just to spite — I mean, just to make sure everyone remembers who the real boss is.”

Derek narrowed his eyes at Stiles, wondering if this was just some story to justify his decisions.  Still, there was no point in arguing it at the moment.  Even if Stiles was just trying to pass the buck on an unpopular decision, it still meant he wasn’t going to change his mind.

“Have you seen the revisions to the Willamette River condominiums?” Derek asked, and pretended not to notice the relief in Stiles’ eyes as he bent over the file to examine the blueprints.

* * *

Derek realized immediately that something was wrong.  Elmer, the security guard at the door, was in no mood for their usual morning conversation, answering Derek’s greetings with only a tight nod.  The elevator ride up to the 87th floor was tense and silent, and in the hallways and offices everyone seemed subdued, their voices a low murmur.

“What’s going on?” Derek asked Allison, the head of Litigation.  “Somebody die?”

“First of the month,” Allison replied, busily neatening up her desk.  At Derek’s confused silence, she finally looked up.  “The old man comes in on the first of the month,” she elaborated.  “And he’s a bear, so just...keep your head down and do whatever he says.”

“I’m sure he’s not that bad,” Derek protested, feeling strangely protective of any relative of Stiles’.

At that Allison smiled, and how someone with dimples could still manage such a diabolical smile was beyond Derek’s understanding.  “You’ll see,” she said.

Derek frowned, retreating to his office and settling into the work of the day.  And it was a remarkably productive day.  He managed to get so much more done than he was typically able to do, and it wasn’t until he raised his head at two in the afternoon, realizing that he had missed lunch, that he suddenly figured out why.

Stiles hadn’t interrupted him once today.  Not even a random text.  And no wonder he had missed lunch, because come to think of it, almost every day — or was it, in fact, _every_ day? — Stiles always just appeared at lunch time, either with lunch for them both or to drag Derek somewhere or another for a meal.

Derek was holding his phone in his hands, wondering if he should take the unprecedented step of actually texting _Stiles_ for once, when Allison popped her head in the doorway.  

“You’re wanted in Boardroom C.  Bring the New Bedford file.”

Derek nodded, gathering up the file and rushing to the boardroom.  He pushed open the door, involuntarily coughing a little at the thick scent of anxiety filling the room.  The boardroom table was nearly full, but Derek found an empty seat and slid in.  He looked up, straight into the cold grey eyes of Stan Starr.  

In the portraits hanging in the hallways the man simply looked morose, but in person he was almost bone-chillingly intimidating.  His mouth was set in a firm, disapproving line, the nostrils of his long, aquiline nose flaring as if he were smelling something unpleasant.  His bushy grey eyebrows seemed to draw down even further as his gaze pierced Derek.

“So this is the new Chief Counsel?” he asked, still looking at Derek but obviously addressing someone else.

“Yes, sir.”  

Derek startled.  The voice was Stiles’ but...Derek looked around the table, his eyes seeking Stiles out, and he almost looked right past him a second time before realizing.  Everything that seemed to make Stiles _Stiles_ was missing.  

Stiles was sitting stiff and still in his chair, dressed in a conservative charcoal suit and blue striped tie, his usually unruly hair parted neatly.  For the first time in Derek’s memory, his hands were clenched firmly on the tabletop — no tapping at his phone, no restless drumming on the table, no doodling in his little notebook.  His voice, when he spoke, had been small and subdued.

Derek looked back at Mr. Starr, disconcerted.  “Derek Hale, sir,” he finally managed to say.

“Well, Mr. Hale.  Tell me about the New Bedford project.”

Derek nodded.  “We are ready to move to construction.  All the zoning permits and environmental impact studies have been completed, and construction crews have been scheduled.  Here’s a project outline…”

“What happened to the walkway?” Mr. Starr interrupted sharply.

Derek lifted his head from his notes.  “Excuse me, sir?”

“The _walkway_ ,” Mr. Starr repeated testily.   “Around the lake.  That was a considerable selling point.  What happened to it?”

Derek nodded, flipping through the file to pull out the revised artist’s rendering.  “Well, you see, sir, there’s a colony of purple martins around that lake, and the species is in decline, thanks to pesticides and collisions with man-made structures, in addition to introduction of invasive species such as house sparrows and European starlings competing for nesting space.  Given their breeding site fidelity and their value as insectivores, it would be ill-advised to —”

“Mr. Hale,” Mr. Starr interrupted sharply.  “I do not give a _goddamn_ about any purple martins.”

Derek pushed his reading glasses further up his nose.  “You — you don’t?”

“I do not.”  Mr. Starr took a sip of water from his glass.  “The walkway goes back.  You are dismissed.”

“But, sir.  I think when you consider the benefit of having such a large colony of insectivores, the absence of a walkway will be more than compensated for, by the —”

“You are _dismissed_ ,” Mr. Starr repeated coldly.

Derek looked around the table.  Everyone seemed to be avoiding his eyes.

“Stiles?” Derek finally asked hopefully.  Of all the times Stiles seemed to so freely share his opinion, now that Derek actually _needed_ it…

 _“Stiles,”_ Mr. Starr repeated, spitting out the word as if it had a bad taste.  “Do we have a problem?”

Stiles’ amber eyes looked steadily down at the table, avoiding Derek’s entreating gaze.  

“No, sir,” Stiles said quietly.  “The walkway will get added back into the final blueprints, I’ll make sure of it.”  He finally looked up, meeting Derek’s eyes only briefly before looking away again, a blotchy flush gathering high on his cheekbones.  “Thank you for your input, Mr. Hale.”

Derek’s heart sank.  He nodded, gathering up his papers and re-adjusting the binder clip before sliding them into the file.  Then he stood and walked from the boardroom, feeling all eyes on his back.


	5. The Compromise

Derek was still replaying the meeting in his head hours later when Allison stopped in, leaning in his open door.

“We’re getting ready to go — are you coming?”

Derek blinked, trying to gather his thoughts.  “Is there a meeting?”

Allison stepped into his office, shutting the door behind her.  “No one told you?  It’s a first of the month tradition.  We all go to the bar down the street for happy hour, to bitch and blow off steam after the old man’s visits.  You should come.”

Derek wasn’t much one for bars, but he was still reeling from his first meeting with Mr. Starr, and a little moral support probably wouldn’t go amiss.  

“Okay.”

* * *

The bar, to Derek’s relief, was relatively quiet, and Allison gestured Derek over to a table in the corner that was already populated with a few familiar faces from work, absorbed in their own conversations.  

Derek slid in next to Danny, the CTO, Allison sitting on his other side.  To Derek’s surprise Scott, Stiles’ driver/bodyguard, arrived a few minutes later, greeting Allison with a kiss.  Scott slid a bottle of beer toward Derek, taking a long gulp from a similar-looking bottle.  

“One of the bartenders is a ‘wolf,” Scott explained.  “He keeps a few wolfsbane brews under the counter for us.”

Derek nodded his thanks, taking a sip as he looked around the full table.  “Stiles doesn’t come?”

Allison, Scott, and Danny exchanged a look that Derek couldn’t quite decode.  

“Nah, the old man keeps him there until he decides they’re done — at least until midnight, sometimes later.  That’s why he gives me the night off,” Scott finally volunteered.

“Is it — “ Derek felt himself flushing, unsure how to ask.  “Is it...always like that?”

Danny snorted.  “Is the old man always a cold-blooded son of a bitch?  Yeah, he is.”

“No, I meant —”  Derek stared down at his beer bottle where his fingers were restlessly peeling off the label.  “Is _Stiles_ always like that?”

Their end of the table grew silent, and Derek immediately felt embarrassed for asking.  

“Never mind,” Derek said.  “I’m not sure what I’m even —”

“He used to fight him more,” Danny said suddenly.  “About a lot of things.  Stiles and I were at boarding school together.  They used to have big blowouts.  Geez, when Stiles first came out to the old man, I thought that would be the final straw.  But it’s like...they’re tied together.  Family, whether they like it or not, and Stiles is always gonna be loyal to his family, even if it kills him inside.”  Danny and Scott shared a look at that, and Derek got the sense there was a lot more they were leaving unsaid.

It suddenly bothered him.  All these people knew Stiles, had known him for _years_ longer than Derek had.  Why was Derek the only one who seemed to be feeling the weight of Stiles’ absence at this table?  Stiles in that boardroom had been an empty shell of the vibrant, brilliant man Derek knew him to be.  Why did the people he knew best, the people who should have been his best friends, just seem to _accept_ that?

Before he knew it, Derek was pushing to his feet.  “I’ve gotta go,” he mumbled, digging in his wallet for a $20 to leave on the table.  “I — I’m gonna go.”

The streets were crowded at this hour, teeming with the sounds and smells of the city in summer.  Derek wound his way through like a veteran, realizing that at some point the city had started to feel a little more like home to him.  It was a long walk back to The Grand, and just yesterday Derek would have been reveling in the much-needed solitude.  Now, after a day with only that short glimpse of Stiles, Derek realized that he actually _missed_ the man.

* * *

The strident ring of the hotel room phone startled Derek out of his restless doze.  

“Mr. Hale?  It’s Valencia, from the front desk.  You asked to be notified when Mr. Starr returned?”

* * *

Derek stood outside Stiles’ suite, hesitating.

 _You’re ridiculous_ , he scolded himself.  He was in Stiles’ room almost every day.  Was he only hesitating now because he hadn’t been _summoned?_ He let the little frisson of indignation bolster his courage long enough to knock firmly on the door.

He waited long enough that he thought Stiles wasn’t going to answer, when finally the door swung open.  Stiles looked pale and tired, his hair rumpled from its careful part, his shirt half-untucked with the sleeves rolled up.

Stiles immediately turned around and headed back into the suite.  Derek took the half-open door as an invitation, following Stiles in and closing the door softly behind himself.

“If you’ve come to yell at me, have at it.  Just don’t mind if I fall asleep.  You can present me with a written summary in the morning of whatever I miss.”  Stiles sank down in an armchair, his head falling back and eyes closing.

Derek sat in the armchair across from him.  “I’m not here to yell at you.”

Stiles pried one eye open, and then both.  “Oh, great. _Pity_.  Even better.”  His mouth twisted bitterly.  “Thanks for that cherry on top of my humiliation sundae.”

“It’s not pity,” Derek protested.  “It’s just — I don’t understand.”

Stiles jumped to his feet, taking a few quick steps to the window, running a restless hand through his hair.  “What’s there to understand?” he spat, turning around to pin Derek with his angry gaze.  

Derek bristled under the attack, his voice coming out sharper than he had intended.  “I don’t _understand_ who that guy in the boardroom was.  Because he wasn’t _you.”_

Stiles froze, his eyes searching Derek’s expression.  “And you know me so well, huh?”  He shook his head dismissively.  “You don’t know anything about who I really am.”

“That’s — that’s —”  Derek jumped to his feet as well.  “I know a lot about you.  Most of all, I know that you actually _care_ about the work that we’re doing, which is why I don’t understand how you could just stand aside and —”

Stiles threw up his hands in agitation.  “Of course.  Saint Derek doesn’t understand how anyone could compromise, because he’s such the perfect fucking epitome of all his ideals.  Well, that’s not real life, Derek.  Real life is one fucking compromise after another.”  He wheeled around to face the window again, leaving Derek staring in fury at his stiff back.

Derek clenched his teeth, bitter anger roiling in his belly.  Who was Stiles, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, to lecture _him_ about ‘real life’?  Derek learned about real life when some psycho tried to burn his whole family alive.  But Stiles wouldn’t know about that, would he?  Because he wouldn’t even think to _ask_.  

“You think I don’t know about compromise?” Derek snapped.  “How about the giant goddamn deal with the devil I made when I even took this job?  I sold out everything I believed in just to come here and mitigate the damage you do on a daily basis —”

Stiles turned around suddenly, the stricken expression on his face making the rest of Derek’s words jam up in his throat.

“Deal with the devil, huh?”  Stiles’ smile was a bitter, twisted caricature of his usual bright grin.  “Good to know what you really think of me.  Maybe you do know me after all.”

Derek’s anger was extinguished as quickly as it had flared up, subsumed in a wave of regret.  “Stiles, you know I didn’t mean —”

“I think you should just go, Derek.”  In a few quick strides, Stiles was at the door, yanking it open.  “Would you just go?”  His voice wavered, and unthinkingly Derek took a step closer, reaching out towards him.

Stiles just stepped back, opening the door even wider.

Derek dropped his arm, trying to reach for something to say that would fix the situation.  But, as always, his words failed him, and all he could do was duck his head in acknowledgement, stepping into the hallway and listening as Stiles shut and locked the door against him.

* * *

Derek spent the night tossing and turning, playing the conversation over in his head and thinking of all the places where he could have kept it from going so wrong.  

Because the truth was, Derek _did_ know Stiles.  And not just his brand of boxer briefs, or that he hated onions in his salads but loved avocados.  No, Derek knew that Stiles was smart, and dedicated, and more compassionate than he let on.  

He knew that Stiles reminded Scott to get Allison flowers on her birthday, and that he gave Danny his first job in tech when no one would touch him because of an incident of hacking in his past.  He knew that every charity event at which Stiles appeared had been thoroughly vetted, and that for all that Stiles would crack jokes about confusing podiatry and pediatrics, he could also ramble on for more than half an hour about how life-changing the surgical treatment of obstetric fistula could be for women in countries with poor access to medical care.

And Stiles knew Derek, too.  Maybe he didn’t know about Kate and her attempted murder spree, but he knew Derek had learned Spanish just so he could read Cervantes in the original text and not the translation.  He knew that Derek called his family at noon Pacific time every Sunday, and never interrupted him when he was speaking to them.  And as seldom as Derek talked, when he _did_ talk, Stiles always listened — even when he pretended not to.

Derek dressed hurriedly the next day, brimming with things he wanted to tell Stiles — apologies and explanations.  But Stiles greeted him so breezily, launching into a discussion of an upcoming meeting in exactly the same way as he would have before, that Derek was tongue-tied.  And before he knew it, they had fallen into the same pattern as always, as if that moment in Stiles’ suite had never even happened.


	6. The Divorce

“I need you to handle something for me.”

Derek looked up just in time to catch the sheaf of papers Stiles was tossing in his direction.  He caught the stack with only a little bit of fumbling and flipped through the first few pages, his eyebrows raising as he read.

“A divorce case?  They need a divorce lawyer, not a real estate attorney.  And who the hell is...is this even a name?”  Derek squinted at the text of the complaint.  “Mee...meesch…”

“Mieczysław.”  Stiles’ pronounced the name fluently, in a voice so uncharacteristically quiet and serious that Derek stopped shuffling through the papers to meet his eyes.

“So who is Mie — Mieczysław Stilinski?” Derek asked, stumbling through the name in his attempt to copy Stiles’ pronunciation.

“You’re looking at him.”  Stiles’ voice was a little too casual, tension evident in his shoulders as he slumped into the chair on the other side of Derek’s desk, his fingers beating a rapid tattoo on the slick wooden surface.

“You — but — but, your name is Stiles Starr,” Derek stammered out.  Stiles met his gaze steadily.  “Isn’t it?” Derek asked, suddenly uncertain.

“Stanisław Stilinski was a little too Polish for my grandfather’s taste.  He wanted something with more pizzazz.”  Stiles rolled his eyes.  “Something that would look better in 50-foot gold letters on the 100th story of a building.  Hence, the Stan Starr in Starr Development.  My dad didn’t feel the same way.”

“Your dad?”  Stiles had never mentioned his parents before.

“Yeah.”  Stiles’ voice was raspy, his head tipped up to the ceiling, exposing the long, pale line of his neck.  “My pops.”

“His name was Stilinski?”  Derek felt a little lost.

“Still is,” Stiles jerked his head down angrily to meet Derek’s eyes, his voice like a lash.  “He’s not _dead_.”

“I’m sorry.”  Derek felt his brow furrow, not entirely sure how he had managed to push Stiles from tearful to angry in five seconds flat.  “I didn’t know.”

Stiles looked away, his mouth twisted.  “Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t.”  He scrubbed his palm over his face, sighing.  “We don’t talk much.”

Derek opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again.  It would be beyond rude to ask why, even if he desperately wanted to know.

Derek stared down at the papers again, his eyes widening as another realization belatedly struck him.

“You’re _married?_ ” he blurted out, scandalized.  

Stiles’ mouth firmed into a bitter line.  “In name only, so you can wipe that judgey look off your face, Mr. Hale,” he said acidly.  “The actual marriage lasted less than a year.  Lydia and I just didn’t bother with the dissolution until now.”  Stiles pushed back abruptly from the desk, standing up.  “Anyway, it should be pretty cut and dried.  No-fault divorce, irreconcilable differences, yadda yadda yadda.”

Derek frowned down at the paperwork.  All this time — all the men and women who had doubtless passed through Stiles’ hotel room — and he had a _wife_.  “You should still get a divorce attorney.  As complicated as your finances are…”

Stiles shrugged off Derek’s concerns.  “The prenup is iron-clad, Grandfather insisted on it.  And Lydia is hardly in need of the money.  Both she and her new husband-to-be are almost as rich as I am.  She just wants it done quickly.”  

Stiles’ eyes met Derek’s, a vulnerability in the whiskey-brown depths that Derek hadn’t seen before.  “Can I trust you with this?”

“Yes.”  Derek cleared his throat, stacking the papers neatly together again. “Of course.”

Stiles nodded, and then strode out of Derek’s office without a backward glance, leaving Derek alone with a long night of brushing up on divorce law ahead of him.

* * *

When Lydia Martin said she wanted a divorce fast, she apparently meant it.  By the next afternoon, Stiles and Derek were in a limousine speeding toward their court date.  

“Judge Mills is a friend of the Martin family,” Stiles had remarked offhandedly when Derek expressed surprise at the rapidity of the proceedings.  “He’ll probably get a Supreme Court nomination out of this.”

Traffic was a nightmare, and Stiles was uncharacteristically silent as the limousine crept along.  Derek shuffled through the papers one more time even though he had them memorized, racking his brain for a topic of conversation that would break the awkward silence.

“I knew someone named Stilinski in Beacon Hills,” he finally threw out.  “A sheriff’s deputy.”

The conversational overture seemed to fall flat, Stiles’ already-tense frame stiffening further.    
“That’s my _dad_ , dumbass,” he finally said, making Derek’s jaw fall open in surprise. “He’s Sheriff now.”

“You’re from _Beacon Hills?”_

Stiles’ voice was clipped, making it clear that further inquiries would be unwelcome.  “I _was_.”

Derek racked his brain, trying to remember if he had ever seen Stiles in Beacon Hills, or even known that the Sheriff had a son.  Nothing came to mind — Stiles must have been pretty young when he left.

Derek tried to keep his eyes fixed on the stack of papers in his hands, but couldn’t help it — his gaze was drawn back to Stiles over and over, sneaking little sidelong glances, watching as some of the tension slowly left Stiles’ frame, his set expression softening.  

Stiles looked out the window, running a hand through his already-disordered hair.  “You knew him?” he finally asked, his voice quiet and tentative.  “What was he like?  I mean, to you.”

Derek cleared his throat.  “He was...he was nice.  He…”  Fuck, why had Derek even started this conversation?  It’s not something he liked to talk about either.  “He met me at, I guess you would say, a really bad time in my life.  And he was — he was really nice,” he repeated awkwardly.  

He looked up, expecting Stiles to mock his inability to express a coherent thought.  Instead Stiles was leaning forward as if desperate to hear every word, his eyes wide and intent, his mouth slightly parted.  It made Derek cast around, trying to think of something else to say.

“It was cold, and he — he put his jacket over my shoulders.  And then he gave me a hug.”  Derek cleared his throat, staring down at his knees as his own voice grew raspy at the memory.  Sixteen year old Derek Hale, shivering in the Deputy’s oversized canvas jacket, the guilt roiling in his belly, the burn of smoke and ash scouring his nose and throat.  “It was a great hug.”

Stiles made a soft, hurt noise, but by the time Derek’s head snapped up he was looking out the window, hiding his expression.  All Derek could see was the sharp jump of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

“Yeah,” Stiles said eventually, his voice a little uneven.  “He gave great hugs.”

Derek looked down at the papers again, helpless for anything he could say to make the situation better.  They rode in silence the rest of the way to the courthouse.

* * *

The limousine ride back was equally silent.  Derek watched as Stiles pulled open a small compartment in the back of the limousine, pouring himself a glass of amber liquid.  He raised the decanter at Derek in question, shrugging when Derek shook his head.

Stiles choked a little on the first big gulp, and it occurred to Derek that for all of Stiles’ reputation as a party boy, Derek had never actually seen him drink alcohol before.  He seemed determined to make up for lost time now, though, emptying the glass in another few swallows, grimacing at the taste of it even as he poured himself more.

“Maybe you should slow down,” Derek suggested.  Stiles met his eyes challengingly, taking an even bigger gulp from his refilled glass.

Less than fifteen minutes later Stiles was slumped in the corner of the seat, the glass dangling from his slack hand before Derek gently took it away.

“So what did you think of the lovely Lydia Martin?” Stiles asked Derek suddenly, his voice already a little slurry on the consonants.

“She was…”  Derek rolled the empty whiskey glass between his hands, the facets of the cut crystal base sharp against his palms.  “...not what I expected.”

Stiles snorted.  “What did you expect?”  He quirked an eyebrow at Derek.  “Younger?  Blonder?  Let me guess — dumber?”

Derek shrugged, but he couldn’t really deny Stiles’ words.  It’s not like Derek interacted much with Stiles’ dates, but he had seen them — spilling out of Stiles’ limousine, or hanging off his arm in a publicity photo.  He had heard them giggling in the background of his conference calls, and none of them had seemed like the smart, intimidating, polished force of nature that Lydia Martin had just been.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Stiles rambled.  “She’s a brilliant mathematician.  Could win the Fields Medal if she applied herself.  We used to talk about it.  She’d get her Ph.D., and I’d —”  Stiles cut himself off, frowning down at his hands.  Derek realized he was thumbing at his left ring finger, as if feeling the imprint of a ring Derek had never seen him wear.  “But I guess everybody compromises.”

Stiles’ lower lip started to tremble, and Derek started to panic.  

“Here.”  He pulled a bottle of water out of the compartment, shoving it in Stiles’ hands.  “Drink this.”

Stiles shot him a look, but opened the cap of the bottle and took a long swig anyway.  His head lolled against the seatback.  He looked flushed and rumpled and more vulnerable than Derek had ever seen him.

“It should have worked between us,” Stiles said, and Derek didn’t know if he was talking to himself or to Derek.  “On paper we were perfect.  We got along great as friends, and she was exactly the kind of woman Grandfather thought I should marry.”

“Is that important?”

Stiles took another long swig of water.  “Of course it is,” he said bitterly.  “Just ask my dad.  Fell in love with my mom, who was not at _all_ the type of woman Grandfather thought he should marry.  Kicked him out of the house so hard he landed straight in the Army, and never went back.  Even changed his name back, to what it was before Grandfather got delusions.”  Stiles snorted again.  “Dad always said that Starr sounds like the name a Texas stripper would have.” 

Derek couldn’t help smiling, more at the warmth in Stiles’ voice when he spoke of his dad than at the joke.  

“So why didn’t it work?”

The silence dragged on for so long that Derek was sure Stiles wasn’t going to answer, when he finally spoke.  “We didn’t love each other, not really.  She settled for me, and I was just...in love with the _idea_ of her.  She’s so beautiful, and smart, and I was just — in awe of her.  I thought if she was willing to be with me, it would be amazing.  But it just...wasn’t.  Nobody wants a husband who is in awe of them.  Nobody respects that.  We should have never even tried.  All I did was lose my best friend.”

Derek bit his lip, nervously adjusting his glasses.  “I’m sorry,” he finally said.

“Yeah.”  Stiles smiled, soft and bittersweet.  “Me too.”


	7. The Wedding

Stiles burst into Derek’s room.  

“I have a brilliant idea!”

Derek pulled a pillow over his head, groaning into it.  “No idea is brilliant at — “ He snuck his phone under the pillow “— 5 a.m.”

Stiles flopped down on top of the covers next to Derek.  “No, really.  Get this.  The problem is that everyone I meet here knows how much money I have.  So, we’ll go somewhere on vacation together.  You can pretend to be my spinster — are men spinsters?  Or are they just confirmed bachelors?  — Anyway, you are my pathetic loveless brother, and you can be my wingman.”

Derek briefly considered smothering Stiles with his pillow.  

“We can go this weekend!” Stiles said cheerily.

Derek finally pulled the pillow off his head, giving Stiles a sour look.  “You know I’m going to San Francisco this weekend.”

“Oh, right, I forgot,” Stiles said unconvincingly, the pout to his lower lip giving him away.  “Brad and Eliza’s wedding.”

“ _Boyd_ and _Erica’s_ wedding, as you well know,” Derek growled.   

“Well, maybe I could —”

“You’re not coming,” Derek snapped.  A hurt expression crossed Stiles’ face for just a moment, and maybe that had been a little harsh.  But Derek could just see Stiles, showing up at the wedding, charming Derek’s friends and family.  Maybe even pretending to be his _date_ , that’s exactly the kind of thing Stiles would find hilarious.  Acting like he _cared_ about Derek, was romantically _interested_ in Derek, as some kind of giant joke.  Something bitter roiled in Derek’s stomach at the idea.

“Fine.”  Stiles threw himself off the bed, openly sulking now.  “I’m sure I have something absolutely fabulous to do this weekend anyway.  So, go ahead, _abandon_ me for a whole weekend —”

“You’ll survive, you giant baby.”

Stiles threw his hands in the air in frustration.  “Do you think I _like_ this?  Before you came into my life I was capable of making all _kinds_ of decisions, and now I’m addicted.  I need to know what you think.”

“I think —”  Derek sat up, ignoring the way Stiles’ mouth dropped open a little bit as the covers fell off his bare chest.  “— that you need to get out of my room and let me sleep for another hour.”

* * *

Erica stood in front of the mirror, adjusting her fascinator one more time.

“Leave it,” Derek said.  “You look amazing.”

“I —”  Her eyes sought his in the mirror.  “I do?”

Derek couldn’t help smiling.  For just a moment, Erica looked like the insecure teenager she had been when Derek first met her, before his mother offered her the Bite.  “Boyd is gonna cry.”

“No he won’t!” she scoffed, before her brown eyes widened, meeting his in the mirror again.  “Will he?”

“Guaranteed.”  Derek’s phone chimed and Erica’s smile dropped off her face.

“You’re not going to be texting that boss of yours through my whole ceremony, are you?”

“Of course not.”  Derek thumbed his phone to silent without even looking at it, handing Erica her bouquet.  “Let’s get this show on the road.”

* * *

“Aw, man!”  Derek shut the door to the dressing room as quickly as he had opened it.  Erica and Boyd had only been a few feet ahead of him as they walked down the aisle after the ceremony, how they had managed to get Boyd’s jacket, tie _and_ shirt off in the amount of time it took for Derek to catch up with them?

Derek banged on the door once.  “I’m giving you ten minutes to get it out of your system, and then you need to be ready for photographs!” he scolded.  Not only was he Erica’s Man of Honor but he was also her volunteer wedding planner, and he had a whole list of things they needed to accomplish before the reception got fully in swing.

He pulled out his phone to check the time, only then remembering the text he had received right before he walked Erica down the aisle.

He tapped on the messages and his stomach dropped.

_Stiles:  Emergency.  Need help, call ASAP._

Cursing under his breath, Derek hurriedly hit the button for his favorites, calling Stiles back.  It rang and rang, before switching to his voicemail.  Derek hung up and tried again.  And again.  And again.

He almost fell over as the door he was leaning on opened.  Erica and Boyd emerged, laughing and only slightly disarranged.  

Erica slung an arm around Derek’s waist.  “All right, all right, we’re decent, let’s — are you okay?”

“Yeah.”  Derek hit the call button again.  “It’s just —”

Erica nudged him with her hip.  “Don’t tell me that boss of yours is bothering you right now?  C’mon, Derek, I want a picture with my two favorite men.”

“No, it’s —”  Derek put the phone in his pocket.  “It’s fine.”

* * *

“C’mon, Derek — dance with me!” Cora was flushed and happy, beautiful in her bridesmaid’s dress.

“I will — just give me a second,” Derek said, sending another text.

* * *

Talia’s face was concerned, her hand gentle on Derek’s shoulder.  “Derek, darling — they’re cutting the cake.”  

“I just need to make one more call,” Derek mumbled, already turning away.  “Hello, can you connect me to the Emergency Department, please?  Yes, I was wondering if you could tell me if there have been any new admissions, I’m looking for —”

* * *

Hours later, Derek’s phone finally buzzed in his pocket.  He bolted out of the reception hall, holding the phone to his ear.

“Stiles — Stiles, are you alright?”

“Derek!”  Stiles’ voice was boisterous, a hum of conversation and clinking glasses and the bass beat of music thumping in the background.  “What’s up?  I just looked at my phone, and you left me, like, fifty messages!  Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?”  Derek pulled in a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose.  The night was crisp, and Derek felt sweat turning clammy in the hollow of his back.  “Am _I_ okay? You texted me — you said it was an emergency!  I’ve been —”

“Oh, that?”  Stiles laughed.  “Yeah, you’ll never guess — Ryan Seacrest got sick, and they called me at the last minute.  Derek, I judged the Miss New York City pageant!  On television and everything!  But I wasn’t sure about my outfit, I mean the red suit reads okay in person, but on camera I was a little worried that —”

“That.  Was.  Your.  _Emergency?”_ Derek ground out.  “You wanted _fashion_ advice?”

Stiles finally seemed to pick up on Derek’s livid mood.  “Well, I just thought if we FaceTimed, you could tell me whether —”

“Stiles,” Derek snarled, cutting him off.  He shrugged his shoulders, trying to release some of the tension.  The garden was beautiful, moths flitting around the outdoor lanterns.  Inside the wedding reception was winding down, more guests leaving every moment.  “That is not — that is _not_ an emergency.  I’ve missed most of Erica and Boyd’s wedding reception calling —”

“What?” Stiles interrupted.  “Why would you do that?”

“Because I thought you were _dead!”_

Stiles laughed again, a little nervously this time.  “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ll be dead eventually…”

“This is just a big joke to you.”  Derek didn’t even feel angry anymore, just empty and cold.  “ _I’m_ just a big joke to you, aren’t I?  Why did you even _hire_ me?”

“Derek, I —”

“No.”  Derek sucked in a big breath.  “Never mind.  I don’t want to hear it.  I’m going to go inside, and apologize to Erica and Boyd for missing most of their wedding reception.  I’ll talk to you when I get back to New York.”

“Derek —”

For the first time ever, Derek hung up on Stiles.  And it felt great.

Derek barely made it through the door before Erica had him by the arm, propelling him rapidly to the bar.  She practically shoved him onto a stool, and before he knew it there were eight shots of vodka lined up in front of him, little purple petals floating in each.

He threw back the first three without a pause.

“That bad, huh?”

Erica’s fascinator had come off at some point.  Her eyeliner was smudged, her hair falling down from its elaborate updo.  She looked beautiful.

“I’m so sorry, Erica.  I shouldn’t —”  Derek was not going to ruin Erica’s wedding reception any further than he had, no matter how much the conversation with Stiles was weighing on his mind.

“Shut it, Hale.”  Erica smiled in understanding.  “It’s fine.  Tell me what happened.”

“Boyd —”

Erica gestured to the dance floor.  “Boyd’s dancing with Alicia.  And we both want to know what’s going on with you.  This guy — he’s not just your boss, is he?”

Derek scowled down into another shot before throwing it back.  “He’s — we’re not screwing around or anything.”

Erica bumped Derek’s shoulder with hers. “Oh, honey.  That’s even worse.  He’s got you this tied up in knots, and you’re not even getting laid?”

“It’s not — it’s not like that.”  Derek’s protests sounded hollow even to his own ears.

“Derek.”  Erica’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle.  “After all this time — you’ve kept people at arm’s length for so long.  And _this_ is the guy you end up falling for?  A rich-ass party boy?”

“He’s not —” Derek shook his head a little too hard, a wave of dizziness overtaking him.  “He’s so much more than that.”

Erica shrugged.  “All I know is that he’s not here with you.  And he’s made you sad all night.”  She put her head on Derek’s shoulder, sighing as he put his arm around her.  “I just don’t want him to break your heart.”

Derek tried to deny it, but couldn’t quite find the words.   _Was_ Stiles breaking his heart?  

“What should I do?” Derek mumbled into Erica’s hair.

“I can’t tell you that.”  Erica straightened up and smiled as Boyd made his way over, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar and his tie hanging loose.  “But, we’ll always be here if you need us.  Me and Boyd, and your family.”

“I know.”  Derek straightened up as well, giving Boyd a thump on the back as he settled on the bar stool next to Erica.  “And that’s enough about me.”  He slid a shot each in front of Erica and Boyd, picking up one more himself.  “To the bride and groom.”

He forced a smile as they clinked glasses and knocked the shots back, but Erica’s voice kept echoing in his head.  His friends, his family — everyone he cared about was on here on the West Coast.  Well, maybe not _everyone_ he cared about.  He cared about Stiles — maybe more than he should.  But did Stiles care about _him?_

* * *

Derek had a lot of time to think on the flight back.  By the time he arrived at JFK he was jet-lagged and mildly hungover, but resolved.  Stiles hadn’t broken Derek’s heart — yet.  But, he would if Derek let him.  And Derek wasn’t going to give him the chance.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: My husband insists on calling this story "Two Wolves' Notice."


	8. The Notice

“Consider this my two weeks’ notice.”

Stiles’ mouth dropped open.  “What?  Just because —”

“Not just because of San Francisco.”  Derek had practiced this over and over in his head, but somehow it was even harder in person, looking into Stiles’ wounded amber eyes.  “Stiles, I don’t sleep well — mostly because you constantly call and text me in the middle of the night.  I think of you in the shower —”  Stiles’ eyes lit up.  “— and _not_ in a good way!” Derek clarified.  

“Derek.”  Stiles ran an agitated hand through his hair.  “I’ll — I’ll stop calling you after hours.  I’ll stop bugging you with all the details of my personal life.”

Derek couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Stiles censoring himself.  “No, you won’t.”

Stiles’ mouth twisted.  “No, I won’t.  You could at least _pretend_ to believe me.”

Derek shook his head.  “Stiles, you shouldn’t have to change who you are.  But it’s not working.  Everyone — my family, my _pack_ — is back in San Francisco.”  Derek had practiced in his head, giving Stiles his notice.  He would be firm.  He would be forceful.  Instead, he found himself begging.  

“Please,” he said, meeting Stiles’ eyes.

Somehow, it was enough.  Stiles pursed his lips.  

“At least stay until you can train your replacement.”

Derek let out a long breath.  This was what he had wanted, but it was odd how relief felt a little more like...disappointment.  

“I’ll find you an amazing replacement.  Someone great.  Much better than I ever was.”

Stiles turned away, but his voice was thick when he spoke.  “Good, because you’re horrible.  Just awful.”  He pulled in a breath that sounded a little shaky.  “The absolute worst.”

“Stiles.”  Derek put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, squeezing.

And he was not sure exactly how it happened but suddenly they were hugging, Stiles’ arms wrapped tight around Derek, his forehead buried in the crook of Derek’s neck.  Derek hugged Stiles back just as hard, breathing in his warm, comforting scent.  It felt unbelievably good, to have Stiles in his arms, fitting against him just right.  Derek closed his eyes and breathed him in, squeezing tight.  

It was Stiles who pulled out of the hug first, blinking rapidly and clearing his throat.  “All right,” he said, his voice hoarse.  “I’ll tell HR to send up some resumes for you to screen.”    

* * *

On paper, Isaac Lahey was the perfect candidate for Derek’s replacement.  He was smart as a whip — a foster kid who had worked his ass off to get full scholarships to Cornell and then Columbia law.  He knew the city inside and out, and specialized in real estate and contract law.  He had even done pro bono work around the city, securing affordable space for youth-centered charities.  So why did the man set Derek’s teeth on edge?

“I’m a huge fan of Mr. Starr,” Isaac said, and it took a moment for Derek to realize that he was referring to Stiles and not his grandfather.  “And I’ve been following the recent shift in corporate policy toward environmentally-sustainable development.  I think it’s really groundbreaking, if you would excuse the pun, and I would be proud to be a part of that initiative.”

Derek grunted the bare minimum of agreement, peering down at Isaac’s resume, hoping to find some kind of flaw.  He looked up and Isaac was dimpling back at him, blue eyes bright, cherubic blond curls circling his head.  _Ugh._

“Well, I’m sure you understand that we have a lot of candidates to interview,” Derek began.

“Yo, Derek — Oh, hey, who’s this?”  Stiles was already sauntering into Derek’s office.  Isaac jumped to his feet, and he was honest-to-God _blushing_ as Stiles’ eyes looked him up and down.

“Mr. Starr — I’m such a _huge_ fan — I mean, I really admire all the work you’ve been doing to develop this great city that I love so much, and your environmental initiatives are —”

“Yeah, great.”  Stiles was already shaking Isaac’s hand.  He shot a glance at Derek, his amber eyes sparkling with amusement.  “Call me Stiles.”

Isaac’s blue eyes were wide and adoring.  “I would be _honored_ ,” he said breathlessly, clutching his portfolio to his chest.

Derek couldn’t control his snort of disgust, trying to cover it by clearing his throat afterward, but Stiles’ sharp gaze was already on him, as if he could see right through to his soul.

Stiles turned his attention back to Isaac.  “So, _Isaac_ ,” he purred, and Derek’s heart sank.  He recognized that voice.  It was the same one he had heard the first time he dove into Stiles’ limousine, the voice Stiles had used to seduce — er, _recruit_ — Derek to his job.  “How are you finding Starr Development so far?”  His voice dropped to an even lower register.  “Are you liking what you see?”

Isaac bit his lip.  “It’s...it’s all very impressive, Sir.”

Derek snorted again and this time they both looked at him, forcing him to feign a short fit of coughing.  “Well, Mr. Lahey was just leaving, so…

“Oh, I’m sure there’s no rush.  Why don’t you get his employment paperwork started, and I’ll give him a tour of the building?”

“What?!” Derek and Isaac said simultaneously, Derek’s voice grim and Isaac’s ebullient.

“Well, I’m sure his credentials are great or you wouldn’t have wasted his time calling him in for an interview, right, Derek?”  Derek gritted his teeth at the knowing challenge in Stiles’ voice.  “So no point in dragging this process out when Derek is so anxious to get back home, is there?  Isaac, you’re hired.  Now let me show you…”

Stiles was already ushering Isaac out of Derek’s office with a solicitous hand on his elbow.  He shot one last triumphant glance backward, as Derek struggled to compose himself.  

As soon as they were gone, Derek thumped back into his chair.  He looked down at Isaac’s resume, realizing that at some point his claws had come out, leaving nine neat punctures in the heavy vellum.

* * *

Derek _should_ have been thrilled with how things were going.  Isaac was just as quick on the uptake as Derek had suspected, and was already up to speed with all the current projects.  Once he got more comfortable he had also revealed a sarcastic sense of humor, and he and Stiles developed a sharp banter that Derek, with all his awkwardness, would never be able to match.

Derek had even half-heartedly sent out his resume to several environmental defense and legal aid charities in San Francisco, and had received an overwhelmingly enthusiastic response.  So why did it feel like every step towards returning to San Francisco — towards returning _home_ — felt like a step towards certain doom?

Derek sought out Stiles in his office — and when had Stiles started spending all his time in _his_ office, instead of Derek’s? — and found him deep in conversation with Isaac, doodling away in his notebook while Isaac rattled off the details of the latest contract.

Derek started to back away when Stiles spotted him.

“Derek!  Come in, come in.  We were just finishing up.”

“Actually, there’s a few more things —” Isaac began.

“No, it’s fine.”  Stiles waved dismissively at Isaac, and Derek couldn’t help the little frisson of satisfaction he felt.  “Derek, what’s up?”

“I —”  Derek shot a sideways glance at Isaac, who was lingering nearby.  “I wanted to let you know that I’ll be out Saturday through Monday.  I have a few — um — job interviews in San Francisco on Monday.”

“Oh.”  

Was Derek imagining the disappointment that seemed to flash over Stiles’ expression before it brightened again?

“Oh, hey, that’s perfect timing!”  Stiles jumped to his feet.  “There’s a project I’ve been meaning to check up on in San Francisco.  We can make it a work trip!  No point in paying for a flight across the country when you can do it on the company dime, right, Derek?”

Isaac cleared his throat.  “I can book us three tickets —”

“No, no,” Stiles interrupted breezily.  “Isaac, this place would fall apart without you holding down the fort.  Derek and I will go.  Right, Derek?  We can stay at the Palace, that’s one of our properties…”

Before Derek knew it he was stumbling back out of Stiles’ office, suddenly committed to a weekend in San Francisco with the man he was actively planning on getting away from.  So why did the thought of it spark an ember of warmth deep in his chest?

* * *

“So, what’s first on the agenda?” Stiles chirped happily as they climbed into the limousine that had met them at San Francisco airport.  The man was way too upbeat for someone who had been on an airplane since 7 a.m., although Derek would admit that the first class seats had made the whole travel experience a lot less painful than usual.  “Check in at the hotel, and then how about lunch at Bellota?”

“Actually, I had kind of, um, promised my family that I would have lunch with them.”

“Oh.”  Stiles’ face fell.  “Well, that’s — that’s okay, I can take your bags to the hotel and make sure your suit is pressed for your big day on Monday…”

“You could come with me.”  Derek wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised by the words that had just leapt out of Derek’s mouth without permission from his brain.  Stiles’ eyes were wide, his mouth parted, and Derek looked at his hopeful expression and couldn’t find it within himself to rescind the impulsive invitation.

“Yeah.”  Stiles looked uncharacteristically shy.  “I would — I’d like that.”

“Okay.”  Derek mumbled, suddenly unable to meet Stiles’ eyes.  “I’ll — I’ll give the driver the address.”

* * *

“Derek, darling!”  Derek couldn’t help but be relieved that Talia was the one to open the door.  “I’m so glad you’re home!”

Derek tilted his neck to the side, letting his alpha place her hand there to scent-mark him briefly before she pulled him into a warm hug.

“And is this? —”

“This is —” _My boss?  My friend?_  A million terms seemed to flash through Derek’s brain in an instant.  “— Stiles,” he finally settled on.

“Stiles,” Talia repeated with a quick look at Derek.  “I’m so glad you could join us.  Please come in, I’ll tell Marcus to set another place.”

“Thank you so much for having me, Alpha Hale.”  Stiles was staring around the foyer.  “This is beautiful.  It’s so wonderful to see a Queen Anne Victorian that has survived the earthquakes so remarkably.”

Talia’s formal smile warmed into true approval, and Derek couldn’t help feeling both irritated and proud at how effortlessly Stiles had charmed his mother.  “Thank you, it’s taken quite a bit of restoration over the years, but Marcus has done much of the planning and work himself.”

Derek moved further into the foyer.  “Who else is around?”

“Cameron and Cora are upstairs, I’m sure they’ll be down in a minute.  And also your —”

“Well, now, who is this?”  Peter’s voice was a silken purr that immediately set Derek’s teeth on edge.  He was lounging carelessly against the doorway to the living room, wearing a v-neck just deep enough to show the edge of the scars that still covered his chest.

“Stiles.”  Stiles introduced himself, jumping in to cover Derek’s awkwardness.  “A pleasure to meet you.”

“You may call me Uncle Peter, and it is a pleasure to meet you too.”  Peter took the offered hand and drew it to his lips instead of shaking it.  “It’s not often that Derek brings anyone home, let alone someone so...delectable.”

“Whoa.”  Stiles jerked his hand back.  “Listen Uncle Bad-Touch, you need to dial the creepy down about 90%, because I am sure I have some wolfsbane mace on me somewhere…”

Stiles suddenly seemed to remember where he was, shooting an awkward glance at Derek and Talia.  “Um, I mean...hello?”

Peter was openly laughing.  “No, I definitely preferred your first response.”  He moved aside, giving Stiles plenty of space to come through the doorway.  “Please come in, and tell me all about yourself.  I find myself...fascinated.”

Stiles lifted his chin, matching Peter’s challenging smirk, and sailed through the doorway.

“Mom!”  Derek sent his mother a pleading glance, but Talia simply shrugged her shoulders, dismissing Peter’s obvious attempt to rattle Derek’s...Stiles.  

“It’s Peter,” she said simply, and then grabbed Derek’s arm, pulling him through into the living room while catching him up on all the family news.

* * *

Lunch was…well, Derek wasn’t entirely sure what lunch was.  How was he supposed to feel, to see Stiles sitting at his family’s table, talking and laughing like he was one of the pack?  Like he _belonged_ there.  He easily matched Peter’s sarcastic sense of humor jibe for jibe, drew the usually shy Cameron into an animated discussion of the effect of new social platforms on political engagement among young voters, and complimented the renovation of the house to Derek’s father until his eyes glowed with pride.

Derek had even indulged in a glass of wolfsbane-infused wine, and his whole body seemed to be glowing with the warmth of the good meal, the scent of his pack surrounding him, and Stiles at his side, gesturing with animation as he explained something or other.  Derek’s father had baked a cherry pie, and Derek helped him transfer slices onto plates, delivering them around the table before sliding back into his own seat.

“So, Stiles,” Peter suddenly said loudly into a pause in the conversation.  He was pouring himself another glass of wolfsbane wine with a carefulness and concentration that indicated he had already had one glass too many.  “How long have you and my dear nephew been dating?”

“Uncle Peter,” Derek warned, but Peter just flicked his hand at him as if he were brushing off a nagging insect.  

“Don’t worry, Derek, if you think we won’t approve.”  Peter’s voice was sharp and bitter, and Derek realized belatedly that he had fallen into one of his black moods again.  “After all, he hasn’t tried to burn us all to a crisp, so he’s already leagues ahead of your first girlfriend.”

Derek felt all the warmth in his body extinguish, his stomach dropping as he broke into a clammy sweat.  He stared down at his slice of pie, frozen in horror, afraid to lift his head and see the knowledge on Stiles’ face.

“Peter,” Talia snarled in full alpha voice. _“Apologize.”_

“What?”  Derek could just imagine Peter’s expression of mock innocence and surprise.  “I’m doing the boy a favor, secrets will be the doom of any meaningful relationship.”

The table burst into a flurry of noise and motion.  Derek could hear Cora’s sharp voice and his mother’s alpha snarl, over his father’s more reasoned attempt to calm things down.

“Listen, you _asshole_ —” Stiles was saying, and Derek couldn’t stand it a moment longer.  He pushed away from the table, fleeing out the back door into the small garden.


	9. The Revelation

Derek was still sitting on the garden bench, trying to calm his shallow breaths, when he heard footsteps approaching.

He tensed up further for a moment, before the scent of Stiles reached him, and he blew out a relieved breath.  In some back corner of his mind he wondered what it might mean, that with almost all his family nearby it was _Stiles_ that he wanted to be near right now, but he pushed the thought away.

Stiles had paused a few steps away but Derek still stared down at his knees, shame and guilt and anger roiling in his belly.  He was scared to look up and see Stiles’ face.  What must he be thinking of all this?

“Can I sit?” Stiles said softly, and Derek managed a tight nod, scooting over incrementally.

Stiles sat at Derek’s side, and somehow it helped, the heat of his body radiating off of him, the warmth of his scent, the familiar rapid tapping of his fingers on his knees.  Derek breathed him in and felt the tangled knot of emotions in his chest easing just a bit.

“If it helps, everyone in there is ripping Uncle Peter a new one,” Stiles finally said.

Derek shook his head.  That’s not what he wanted either.  “He didn’t used to be like that.”  He cleared his throat.  “Before the fire, I mean.”  

He knew Stiles had to know about the Hale house fire, as thorough in his research as he was, but Talia had managed to keep all mention of Kate and Derek’s relationship out of both the courts and press coverage.  No point in pursuing charges of statutory rape when attempted murder, grievous bodily harm, and hate-crime penalties were already on the table.

Derek swallowed convulsively.  “I mean, you know now — about me and Kate.  I let her fool me, gave her access to the house, and Peter almost died.  He didn’t used to be so...bitter.  It’s — it’s my fault he’s like that now.”

“Bullshit.”  Stiles’ voice was mild but emphatic as he leaned a little of his weight against Derek’s side — a welcome, grounding presence.  “Trust me, I know all about asshole family members — I mean, look at my grandfather.  Sure, maybe bad shit happened, but the choices people make are still their own.”

Derek pulled in a sharp breath through his nose, letting it out slowly.  If he weren’t so rattled, if he were a little more in control of himself, maybe he wouldn’t have asked.  

“What happened with you and your dad?”

Stiles laughed bitterly.  “What, you haven’t had enough ugly family drama for one afternoon?”

“I’m sorry.  You don’t —”

“No.”  Stiles’ hand covered Derek’s where it gripped the edge of the bench, his warm palm squeezing Derek’s cold fingers.  “I’m sorry.  It’s — it’s still a sensitive subject, but it’s okay.  I don’t mind you knowing.”

Derek nodded, still unable to meet Stiles’ eyes, but staring down now at where Stiles’ hand was covering his, his long elegant fingers pale against Derek’s darker skin.

Stiles was quiet for long enough that Derek thought he might have changed his mind.  

“It was my fault,” Stiles said abruptly.  He pulled in a deep breath, his fingers convulsively squeezing Derek’s, as he started again.

“I was nine when my mom started to die.  Frontotemporal dementia.  It was slow, and awful, and she said and did things that she never would have when she was well.  My dad — he didn’t deal with it too well.  By the time she was finally hospitalized, he would stop in to visit her as soon as he got off duty, and then as soon as he got home he would start drinking.”

Derek finally pulled his gaze to Stiles’ face, shocked, but Stiles was staring off into the distance, his eyes unseeing.  He pulled his hand off of Derek’s to run agitated fingers through his hair.

“I tried to cover for him — you know, made sure I got to school and made dinner and did laundry and stuff, but I didn’t really know much.  And then one day, he got drunker than usual, and I was trying to clear the table, and I — I accidentally broke this vase, that he had given mom for her birthday.  I was really clumsy, even back then.  And he got really mad, and started yelling, and —”

Stiles drew in a shaky breath and Derek put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in tight against his body.  “He wouldn’t have hurt me, I know it.  I should have just gone to bed, and waited for him to sober up.  But I was scared, and I started crying, and I told him I wanted to go to Scott’s house.”  

Stiles swiped a hand across his eyes.  “Scott and I were best friends back in Beacon Hills, since preschool — our moms had been best friends too.  And my dad felt so bad, and he kept trying to apologize and calm me down, but I wouldn’t hear it, I just kept insisting that I wanted to go to Scott’s, so my dad — he tried to drive me there.”

Derek wasn’t sure what kind of noise he made, but it made Stiles’ eyes suddenly focus on him in concern.  “It was — we weren’t hurt,” Stiles rushed to reassure him.  “But we got pulled over, by one of the deputies from his own department.  And they couldn’t — I mean, not that he would have let them, but they couldn’t cover something like that up.  And my grandfather, it was like — like he had just been _waiting_ for the chance to swoop in.  I mean, maybe he had.”

Stiles’ mouth twisted bitterly.  “So they cut a deal, my grandfather and the sheriff’s department, and my dad.  I would go to my grandfather — just, y’know, as a temporary custody thing — and my dad would get the treatment he needed.  And the charges would be dismissed, so he’d still have his job to come back to.  I mean, he really needed his job.  It was all that kept him going.  And I was such a hyperactive spaz, I mean, I’m sure it was a relief to have me off his hands —”

“Bullshit,” Derek snarled, echoing Stiles’ words back to him.  “You — Stiles, you _know_ that’s not true.”

Stiles pulled in a deep, shaky breath.  “Yeah, maybe I do.”  They sat in silence for another few minutes, watching the hydrangea bush that Derek’s father cared for so assiduously swaying in the breeze, petals drifting gently to the ground.

“Anyway, my grandfather put me up in this fancy boarding school,” Stiles continued, his voice a little steadier.  “And, I could tell my dad was worried about me, and so — maybe I oversold it a little.  I was trying so hard to sound cheerful, so I told him how awesome it was, and how cool the other kids were, and how interesting all my classes were, and just —”

Stiles laughed again, low and bitter.  “I think I was worried that if I told him how miserable I was and begged him to come home he would blow the whole deal, and I didn’t — I couldn’t do that to him.  So, I told him how great it all was, and I guess Grandfather kept doing the same thing — telling him how well I was doing, that I was reaching ‘my full potential,’ and that my intellect would be wasted in Beacon Hills public school because they don’t exactly teach Mandarin there, y’know?”

“So you never went back,” Derek realized aloud.  

Stiles shrugged.  “My dad got treatment, and got off the booze, but my mom was still dying, and he had enough to deal with without having me back on his hands.  And then she died and Grandfather flew down with me for the funeral, and things were just so tense and awful between them that I didn’t want to cause any more trouble.  I thought maybe I’d just finish up the semester, but Dad always sounded a little funny about me coming home on the phone, and it seemed he was just putting it off.  And it’s not like I was miserable the whole time.”  

Stiles pulled a leaf off of the hydrangea, watching a new shower of petals float to the ground as he twisted it restlessly in his fingers.  “After awhile, the lie became the truth.  I did make good friend at school, like Danny, and a few other guys, and Lydia was at the sister school right across the lake.  And I did enjoy the classes, learning stuff even if I knew Grandfather was grooming me to take over the business.  And it just got harder to talk to my dad the less we had in common.  At first I came home for holidays, but it was always kind of stiff and weird, and I thought that maybe I just reminded him of my mom too much, I mean, I have her eyes…”

Stiles trailed off, swallowing thickly.  “I don’t know how I let it get this bad,” he confessed quietly.  “I don’t know how to fix things with my dad, or if he even wants to.  If he blames me for getting him pulled over, or for leaving, or if he thinks that I chose Grandfather’s money over him.”

The thought popped into Derek’s head, and once it was there he couldn’t seem to shake it.  It would be way overstepping Stiles’ boundaries to even suggest it, wouldn’t it?  I mean, he was Stiles’ employee.  But then again, no one would tell someone who was just an employee what Stiles had just told Derek.  So maybe…

“Beacon Hills is only two hours from here,” Derek blurted out.

Stiles pressed his lips together into a thin line, mangling the hydrangea leaf even further.  And Derek was just about to apologize, just about to take it back, when —

“Would you go with me?” Stiles asked.

Derek pulled the remains of the leaf from Stiles’ hand, interlacing their fingers.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah, I’ll be right there with you.”

* * *

Derek sat next to Stiles in the back of the limousine.  Stiles was staring out the window, and had hardly said more than a few words in the hour that they had been driving, but his fingers were still tangled with Derek’s.

“Maybe I should have called first,” Stiles finally said.  “I’ve never just dropped by without an excuse.  Maybe he’s busy.”

“You could call,” Derek agreed.  Stiles had his phone in his other hand, but he made no move to dial, looking out the car window again instead.  

“What if he tells me not to come?” he asked quietly.  He looked unsure and so heartbreakingly _young_.

“He won’t.”  Derek wasn’t so sure how he knew, but he thought of the man he had met almost a decade ago — the look that had been on his face when he had put his jacket over Derek’s shoulders and pulled him into his arms — and he just knew.

And then, it was like a blurry image suddenly coming into focus.  “ _That’s_ why you planned your conference center in Beacon Hills,” Derek realized.  “So you would have a reason to come up here and see your dad?”

Stiles looked out the window, the blotchy flush on his cheekbones answering for him.  

“Stiles.”  Derek pulled on Stiles’ hand, forcing him to face him.  “You don’t need an excuse.  Your dad is going to be thrilled to see you.  Anyone would be.”

Stiles’ beautiful amber eyes searched Derek’s face, seeming to relax a little at whatever he found.  “Okay,” he said.  He bobbed his head in a jerky nod, swallowing thickly.  “Okay.”


	10. The Reunion

Stiles’ courage lasted until they were standing in front of the door.  

“I can’t,” Stiles said, pulling his hand back from the doorbell for the third time.  “You do it.”

Before Stiles could take it back, Derek reached out and firmly pressed the doorbell.

“Derek!” Stiles hissed, half-hiding behind Derek.  

The door swung open.  The Sheriff looked like Derek remembered — a little bit older, perhaps — his hair a little thinner, a few more lines on his weathered face.  He was dressed casually in jeans and a polo shirt, but his body language was alert as his sharp gaze looked Derek over.  Derek could definitely see the family resemblance.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Derek moved a little to the side, watching as the man’s eyes snagged on Stiles.  

“Mieczysław?” he said, taking a step forward before hesitating.  

“Hi, Dad.”  Stiles attempted a weak half-wave before running his hand through his hair self-consciously.  “I hope you don’t mind, we were kind of in the neighborhood —”

And then the Sheriff was pushing past Derek to pull Stiles into his arms.  Derek saw Stiles tense up for just a moment before he melted into the embrace, squeezing his dad as tightly as the Sheriff appeared to be squeezing him.  

* * *

Hours later, John was doing the dishes after dinner, after insisting that Derek and Stiles were not allowed to help.  Derek couldn’t help watching Stiles — he seemed so different.  Still animated, still restless, but he seemed to have lost that sharp edge that he always had in the City.  He was slumped on the couch now, his feet in Derek’s lap, telling some story about Scott and a sandbox that Derek was only half listening to.

“Oh, wait — I think there’s a picture here somewhere,” Stiles said.  There was a low cabinet in the corner, and Stiles pulled open a door, revealing a row of photo albums, ranging from dog-eared and decrepit to shiny and new.

Stiles unerringly pulled out the third album in the row, only having to flip a few pages until he found the picture.  Stiles and Scott looked to be about three years old, sitting in a sandbox together, dusted in sand from head to toe, and smiling widely despite what seemed to be a developing shiner on Stiles’ right eye.  Two women were in the background — one with bright amber eyes that had to be Claudia Stilinski, and another with curly dark hair that Derek was certain was Scott’s mom.

Stiles brushed his fingers over the clear protective sheet over his mother’s face, lost in thought for a moment.  Then he smiled sheepishly, snapping the album closed and taking it back, sliding it into the empty spot.  He paused for a moment, fingers tracing down the row of albums, before he pulled one of the newer-looking ones out.

“I don’t remember this one,” he murmured.  

He flipped it open and froze, his heartbeat ticking up a notch.

“What is it?” Derek asked, getting up to look over his shoulder.

Stiles was silently flipping through the album.  It held page after page of photoshoots and press releases — publicity shots of Stiles from charity balls, gallery openings, and groundbreaking ceremonies, puff pieces from various magazines, even write-ups of development projects from business journals.

“I’ve got ice cream if anyone —”  The Sheriff paused in the doorway, a blotchy flush blooming high on his cheeks just like Stiles got when he was embarrassed.  

Stiles looked up.  “Dad?” he asked, his voice shaky.

Derek left them alone, heading into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

* * *

At the Sheriff’s urging, Derek and Stiles ended up staying the night.  Their bags were in still in the limousine anyway, and they had long ago sent the driver to a hotel for some downtime.  Stiles squeezed into his old bed, while the Sheriff conspicuously showed Derek to the guest room down the hall.  

Long after the Sheriff had settled into bed, Derek heard a soft knock on the door.

“Come in,” he murmured, raising up on his elbows.

“Hey.”  Stiles poked his head inside the doorway.  “Have you got everything you need?”

Derek nodded.  “You?”  

Stiles came a few steps into the room.  “Yeah.  Can you believe my dad kept my old room just the way it was?  I’ll be hard-pressed to go to sleep and not stay up all night reading the comics I found under my bed.”

Derek smiled.  “So things worked out with your dad, huh?”  Both Stilinskis had been rubbing red-rimmed eyes by the time they made their way into the kitchen to find Derek, but they had seemed easier with each other.

Stiles settled tentatively on the edge of Derek’s bed.  “Yeah.  I mean, we still have a lot to talk about, but we sorted out a lot of things.”  Stiles met Derek’s eyes.  “I wouldn’t have had the courage to do it without you.  So...you know.  Thanks.”

“It’s...it’s no problem.”  There seemed like so much more Derek should say, but as usual, words failed him.  “Good night,” he finally settled on.

Stiles stood up.  “Yeah.  Good night.”  He looked for a moment as if he might say something else, and then he simply nodded once, before leaving the room, shutting the door softly behind himself.

Derek stared up at the ceiling of Sheriff Stilinski’s guest room, wondering what else Stiles might have said, if Derek had just given him a little encouragement.

* * *

“Are you sure you can’t stay a little longer?” the Sheriff asked for the third time.  They had just finished up Sunday brunch with Melissa, and both Stiles and the Sheriff seemed to be having trouble letting go.

“Sorry, dad, not this trip.  There’s a project I have to check on in San Francisco.  And —”  Stiles’ bright expression dimmed.  “Derek has some job interviews to get to on Monday.”

“Oh.”  The Sheriff’s sharp gaze raked over Derek.  “Okay.”

Derek looked away, trying not to shuffle his feet.  He wasn’t sure what Stiles had told his dad about Derek, but it probably seemed a bit disloyal for Derek to be looking for a new job while on a trip with his current employer.

“But I’ll definitely come back soon.  I mean, in a few months there’s the groundbreaking on the construction here in Beacon Hills —” 

A flash of disappointment crossed over the Sheriff’s face, and Stiles must have seen it too.

“ — or, y’know.  I could just come for a visit.  To see my pops.  I don’t need another reason,” Stiles said, a smile spreading across his face to match the one the Sheriff was now sporting.

“Damn right you don’t,” the Sheriff said gruffly, pulling Stiles into yet another hug.  

To Derek’s surprise, the Sheriff turned, pulling him into a hug as well.  

“It’s good to see you again too, Derek.  Glad things turned out okay for you.”

Derek froze for a moment.  He hadn’t realized the Sheriff had made the connection between Derek now and the boy he had known so long ago, but of course he had.  

The Sheriff thumped Derek on the back one more time.  “You take care of my son, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Finally they managed to get themselves in the back of the limousine, Stiles sitting back with a sigh.

“So, you’re gonna take care of me, huh?  Promised my pops, and everything?”

Derek could feel his cheeks heating.  “I didn’t think you heard that.”

Stiles was smirking.  “Nah, you promised.  No takesies backsies.  Guess we’ll just have to cancel those job interviews you have tomorrow…”

And damn if Derek wasn’t tempted.  It would be so easy to tell Stiles that he wanted to stay, after all.  To pretend that what they had was something real, and meaningful.  Yet for his own sanity, he had to remember — maybe he was becoming Stiles’ friend, but at the very heart of it all, he was still Stiles’ employee.  And for all Stiles’ casual flirting, he had never shown any genuine interest in Derek being anything else to him.  The sobering reminder of why he was leaving in the first place made Derek’s stomach flip uneasily.

“Very funny,” Derek grumped.

Stiles swallowed, the smirk melting off his face.  He settled in the corner of the seat, pulling out his phone and starting to tap away.


	11. The Invitation

Two weeks later, Derek was finishing up the last edits on a contract.  He sent it off by email with a sigh of satisfaction, reaching for the next thing in his inbox.  Only...his inbox was empty, the usual towering stack of folders somehow diminished down to nothing without Derek realizing it.

Derek did a quick mental review of upcoming projects.  There was the summary of foundational work on the Willamette River project, but...Isaac was handling that.  And then the Tokyo project was undergoing final inspection, but...come to think of it, Isaac was handling that as well.  In fact, Derek had successfully transitioned all the projects to Isaac.  Which had been the goal, of course, but Derek just hadn’t expected it to happen so...quickly.

Oh, well, there had to be something for Derek to do.  Derek reached for the day’s mail — also a smaller stack than usual.  Only three envelopes.  Two were business-sized, and one was square and thick — probably an invitation to some swanky charity event.  Derek had been at Stiles’ side long enough that some invitations had started to come directly to him.

He opened the business-sized envelopes first.  He scanned over one, his stomach sinking, and then opened the other.  They were both from the San Francisco firms he had interviewed with only two weeks ago.  Both contained very generous offers for employment, with effusive compliments regarding his skills.  It was exactly what he had been hoping for, so why was it making him feel sick to his stomach?

He pulled open the last envelope, hoping for some distraction.  He stared at the invitation for a long moment, having trouble processing what it said.

_Together with their families, Paige Krasikeva and Nathan Song invite you to join them as they celebrate their marriage on Saturday, September 23rd…_

Derek didn’t know how long he stared at the invitation, his thoughts circling uselessly.  

Finally he stood up, feeling as if he were sleepwalking.  He made his way into the hallway, almost bumping into Allison because he wasn’t looking where he was going.

“Derek!”  She greeted him as brightly as ever before the smile melted into a look of concern.  “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I just.”  Derek realized he was still holding the invitation, and shoved it in the pocket of his suit coat.  “I’m just...I’m not feeling so well. I think I’m actually...I think I’m gonna go.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  Her eyebrows were furrowed, and Derek belatedly realized that she knew he was a werewolf, and couldn’t get sick.  He couldn’t bring himself to care, pushing past her and lunging for the elevator before the doors closed.

* * *

Derek was at least halfway through a bottle of wolfsbane-laced whiskey before he realized the distant banging was coming from his door.  He pulled the sofa cushion over his head, hoping that it, together with his wolfsbane-dulled senses, would muffle the obtrusive sound.

When the banging continued unabated, he finally forced himself to his feet, pulling the door open a crack.

“Derek!”  Stiles was trying to insinuate himself through the door despite the latched chain.  “You accidentally left the chain on, can you just…”

“Go away, Stiles.”  Derek realized he had brought the bottle of whiskey with him, and took another long swig.

“You’re drunk!”  Strangely, Stiles sounded fascinated rather than judgemental.  “C’mon, Derek, just let me in, and you can tell me all about it.  You know if you don’t I’m just gonna keep knocking.”

“I’ll call shecurity.”  Derek frowned at the slurred word.  Were his fangs out?  He didn’t think his fangs were out.  He put his thumb in his mouth to feel around, and then pulled it out with a popping noise when he confirmed that they weren’t.  “ _Security_ ,” he enunciated triumphantly.

Stiles had stopped to watch him, wide-eyed, but now he began pushing at the door again.  “They won’t do anything, I own the place, remember?  Now let me in, Derek, let me in, let me in, let me in, you know you wanna let me in, c’mon let me in…”

“Urrrrrgggggh,” Derek groaned, unable to cope with Stiles right now.  “Fiiiiine.”

He unlatched the chain and retreated back to the safety of the sofa, flopping down and taking another swig of whiskey.

Stiles sat next to him, his hands clasped between his knees, watching Derek avidly as if waiting for some kind of performance.  Derek ignored him for as long as he could, before finally snapping.

 _“What,”_ he growled.

“What?”  It was like he had unleashed a flood of words that Stiles had been holding back.  “Derek Hale — sober, serious, never-had-a-good-time-in-his-life _Derek Hale_ — is half-plastered on a Thursday afternoon, and you’re asking _me_ what’s going on?”

“I’ve had a good time,” Derek objected.  “I’ve had — I’ve had _plenty_ of good times!”

“Oh, really?”  Stiles had that infuriating eyebrow raised, a smirk on his face.  “Like when?”

“I have good times,” Derek grumbled.  He frowned down at the bottle of whiskey.  “Paige and I had good times.”

“Paige?”  The smirk had fallen off of Stiles’ face.

Derek shook his head, and then blinked a few times as the room seemed to spin.  “Nuh uh.  You’re — you’re trying to trick me.  I’m not — I’m not gonna say anything about Paige.  You can’t make me.”

Stiles looked a little ashamed all of a sudden.  “You — you don’t have to say anything you don’t want to say, big guy,” he said, patting Derek’s hand.  “I just — I just wanted to make sure you were all right.  Just...take it easy on the booze, okay?  I’ll go —”

“You should shtay,” Derek blurted out.  He felt himself frown.  He hadn’t meant to say that, had he?  But somehow the idea of Stiles going away, now that he was here, taking his delicious scent and his bright eyes and his sharp mind and that long, pale throat with moles that Derek just wanted to _lick_ , and...what had they been talking about?

“Okay, big guy.  I’ll stay.  We don’t have to talk.  I’ll just — I’ll just keep you company for a little while, okay?”  Somehow the bottle of whiskey was gone from Derek’s hand.  He looked down at his empty hand for a long moment and then scowled suspiciously at Stiles, who was looking at him innocently.

“I’m shtill...I’m still thirshty,” Derek insisted, looking around for the whiskey bottle.  Maybe it was under the sofa cushion...

“Oh, great idea.  I’ll get you some water.”  Stiles flitted away to the kitchenette, returning with a bottle of cold water.  Derek looked up at him, ready to argue, but he had forgotten what the problem was.  He fumbled open the cap and drank a big gulp, and then a few more, until before he knew it the whole bottle was empty.

“Great.”  Stiles pulled the empty bottle from his hand, patting Derek on the back of the hand again.  Why did he keep doing that?

Then Stiles settled contentedly on the other end of the couch, pulling out his notebook and pen and starting to scribble.

“What’re...what’re y’always drawing in there?” Derek asked.

Stiles looked up, as if the question had startled him, but then shrugged.  “Different things.  Whatever strikes my fancy.”

“I wanna shee.”  

Stiles gave Derek a long considering look, before slowly holding the notebook a little closer to him.  Derek reached for it, but Stiles pulled it back just out of reach, flipping through the pages himself.  There was a drawing of one of the lions in front of the New York Public Library, one of the rose-shaped stained glass windows from the church opposite the Grand, a quick but eloquent sketch of the Sheriff, a branch of hyacinth, the facade of the Hale house in San Francisco…

“These’re amazing.”  Derek reached out a reverent finger to brush one of the front-facing gables in the drawing of the Hale house.  “You’re — you’re really good.”

“Thanks.”  Stiles cleared his throat.  “I actually wanted to be an artist.  You know...before.  When I was still in prep school.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Stiles drew the notebook back, shutting it and putting it away in his pocket as if he were suddenly ashamed of it.

“It wasn’t anything really, just one of those ideas kids get.”  Derek frowned as Stiles’ heartbeat skipped on the lie.  He hadn’t realized until now how rarely Stiles actually lied to him.  Deflected and distracted, but never lied.

“No.”  Derek reached out before he realized he was going to, capturing Stiles’ wrist in his hand.  “Really, why didn’t you?”

Stiles leaned his head back, his mouth twisting.  “I was visiting Grandfather over winter break, and I told him that’s what I wanted to study in college.  He laughed at me.  Said I was going to end up being some...small-town _loser_ like my dad.”  The tendons in Stiles’ wrist flexed against Derek’s palm as his hand clenched unconsciously.  “When I got back to school, I had been unenrolled from my art class, and Grandfather had another plaque on the donor wall.”  Stiles shrugged as if it hardly mattered to him, but Derek could feel his pulse pattering too quickly beneath his fingertips.  

“Thas'...thas' really mean.”  Derek felt his gums itch with the need to let down his fangs, his fingertips tingling as the claws threatened to come out.  “Your grandfather is a...a _mean man."_   His voice dropped to a whisper.  “I don’ like him,” he confided to Stiles.

Stiles was smiling softly at Derek now.  “Your secret is safe with me, big guy.”

Derek nodded.  Stiles would keep his secrets, he knew that for certain.  “I’ll tell you another shecret,” he said solemnly.  “I got drunk because Paige is getting married.”

“Oh.”  Stiles straightened up, drawing his wrist slowly from Derek’s hand as he shifted away a little.  “I’m sorry.  Is she...are you…?”  He took a deep breath, letting it out through his nose.  “Do you still have feelings for her?”

“Thas’ the problem.”  Derek shook his head, and then had to pause when the room spun again.  He had to remember to stop doing that.  “I never _did_ have feelings for her, even back in college when we dated.  I mean, not the way I should’ve.  She was smart and pretty and she loved me, and I just didn’t feel the same way about her.  And after two years she realized that I never would, and she dumped me.   Everyone I’ve ever dated has dumped me.  And thas’ cause something’s wrong with me, right?”

“Derek.”  Stiles moved closer to Derek again, leaning his weight up against his side.  “Nothing’s wrong with you.  If you haven’t found anyone you wanted to stay with — someone you really wanted to love with all your heart — then it’s good that you were honest with them.”

Derek looked down.  He didn’t know when it had happened, but Stiles’ fingers were interlaced with his.  “But then they go away, and I’m alone.  I’m always alone.”

Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand.  “You’re not alone.  You have your pack, and your friends, and you have — lots of people who care about you.  Maybe you knew deep down that they were wrong for you.  It’s better to be alone than to be pretending, isn’t it?”

That _sounded_ right.  Except that lately, the pretending that Derek had been doing was all related to Stiles.  Pretending that he didn’t feel anything for Stiles, pretending that he wanted to leave Stiles and go back to San Francisco…and meanwhile Stiles was carrying on as usual, with a different person on his arm every night.

“I shouldn’t be talking to you,” Derek said morosely.  “You don’t know anything about being alone.  You always hash — have someone new.  You’re a...you’re a…”

“Slut?” Stiles interrupted sharply.  The sympathetic look had melted from his face.

“A playboy.”  Something about the word struck Derek as funny, so he said it a few more times.  “Playboy.  _Play_ boy.  Play _boooooy_ ….”

“All right, big guy.”  The expression on Stiles’ face was something Derek couldn’t translate, for as long as he peered up at it.  It took a few moments for Derek to realize that Stiles was pulling on his arm, trying to get him to his feet.  “Let’s get you in bed.”

Derek managed to get his limbs to cooperate enough to stand up, swaying gently as Stiles nudged his shoulder under Derek’s arm.  

“In bed,” Derek echoed, taking a stumbling step or two at Stiles’ urging.  “Maybe I’m just not good in bed.”

“Maybe you’re not,” Stiles agreed easily.

Derek drew in a sharp breath, outraged.  “I _am_ ,” he asserted, pulling his arm free of Stiles’ shoulders and taking an unsteady step backwards.  “I may seem awkward, and nerdy, but inside, I’m a complete animal. I’m like a...like a…” He stopped for a moment, perplexed.  “Like a honey badger!” he finally exclaimed in triumph.

“Is that — is that a _good_ thing?” Stiles was asking, but Derek was already talking over him.

“And I’m very bendy, too.  Like a pretzel.”  He poked at Stiles’ chest a few times to ensure that he was giving Derek his full attention.  “And not the pretzel sticks, either,” he clarified.  “The _twisty_ kind.”

“Are you?”  And, no, Stiles sounded _amused_ , and that wasn’t right.

“You don’t believe me?” Derek said, affronted.  “I’m so bendy, I can — I can —”  He searched for something to say that might impress someone as sexually experienced as Stiles.  “I can lick my own toes!”

“You can — _what?”_  

Ha!  _That_ had Stiles surprised.

“I’ll prove it to you,” Derek announced proudly, already starting to pull off his t-shirt.

“Whoa!”  Stiles’ hands were on the hem of Derek’s shirt now too, trying to pull it back down.  “Derek, you don’t have to —”

“No, I _will_.”  Derek was pouting, he knew it, but it was okay because he was still somehow tangled up in his t-shirt, which was proving itself to be remarkably tricky to remove, so it’s not like Stiles could see his face anyway.  He finally got the shirt off with an exclamation of triumph, throwing it across the room.

“Derek, just wait, you don’t need to —”

But Derek was already pushing his pajama pants down, and with a crouch and a shiver he shook himself into his full wolf form.

 _“Oh,”_ Stiles said faintly.

Derek pranced around triumphantly a little, showing off his fluffysoft tail — of which he was inordinately proud — before curling up into a ball, ostentatiously licking at his back toes for a moment.  But they were a bit dusty, and made him sneeze.

Stiles’ startled laugh had Derek leaping to his feet.  He moved closer to Stiles, thinking that he would growl a little and scare him a bit — just enough to show how strong he was in this form.  But as he got closer, Stiles’ scent washed over him, so much richer in this form — warmgingersweet _Stiles_ — that Derek started salivating, a shivering stretch spreading across his whole body as he restrained the urge to just jump on Stiles and snuffle his nose into all of the man’s goodsoft fragrant places.

“Oh, _man_.”  Stiles’ voice was soft and reverent.  “I didn’t even know —”  He crouched down, hand reaching out.  “Can I touch —”

Derek lunged forward, nuzzling into Stiles’ neck with enough force to rock him backwards.  

Stiles tipped onto his ass in an ungainly sprawl of limbs, hands behind him bracing his fall, and Derek took the opportunity to stand over him, licking his neck in long swipes.  Stiles tasted saltysweetdelicious and he smelled so good and his helpless giggles sent a curl of warmth through Derek’s body.

“Oh my god,” Stiles was wheezing, breathless, as his hands came up to cup Derek’s massive jaw, fingers scritching justrightahh at the base of his ears, making his back leg thumpthumpthump.  

“I —” Stiles was scritching down Derek’s spine now, making him wriggle in satisfaction.  “You’re so — _fluffy_.”

Derek yipped in agreement, proud of his magnificent fur.  Stiles laughed again, and then they were quiet for awhile as Stiles stroked his long fingers through Derek’s fur, Derek slowly sagging against him until eventually he melted into a giant happy puddle of wolf, sprawled across Stiles’ lap.

Eventually Stiles’ stifled giggle startled him, and Derek realized he had dozed off, snoring a little. He stretched, a long satisfying flex from this tail to his front toes, shooting Stiles a baleful look.

“Oh, don’t give me that look.  My feet are asleep anyway.”  Stiles half-shoved, half-rolled Derek off his lap, ignoring his disgruntled growl.  “And you need some more water.”  Stiles levered himself unsteadily to standing, stomping his feet a little to get the feeling back.  He came back with two bottles of water from the fridge in the kitchenette, twisting the cap off of one.

“Are you going to shift back, or should I? —”

Derek looked longingly at the water.  It looked cool and wet and he was thirsty, but he didn’t want to become sadstressed man-Derek yet.  Things were easier like this, his body loose and relaxed from Stiles’ petting, luxuriating in the scent of Stiles all over his body, in his den.

Stiles watched him for another long moment before turning back to the kitchenette.  He rummaged around a little — it’s not like Derek cooked, so there wasn’t much to work with — before finally finding a cereal bowl.  

“Just — don’t give me a hard time about this in the morning,” Stiles said, pouring the water into the bowl and Derek darted forward, lapping to his heart’s content.

Derek was still sleepymellow, and Stiles was still standing there, just watching him.  Did Derek have to do everything?  With a sigh, he started nudging at Stiles’ legs, herding him back into the main room, and towards the bed.

“What? —”  Stiles backed up, stumbling a little as Derek kept nudging him, before eventually getting with the program and sitting on the bed.  “All right, all right!  Do you want to get tucked in or something?”

Derek butted Stiles’ chest with his head until Stiles was lying down.  Then, with a giant leap and a satisfying sproingbounce of bedsprings he jumped on the mattress next to him.  He turned around a few times, pawing at the sheets and blankets to make a nice cozysoft hollow, before settling down with his head heavy on Stiles’ belly.  He let out a satisfied sigh, his eyes slitting in contentment as Stiles started scritching his ear again.

“Okay, I get it,” Stiles murmured, his voice a quiet rumble that Derek felt as much as heard.  “Go to sleep, big guy.”

Derek huffed out another big breath, swishing his tail a few times.

Derek started to drift off to sleep to the rhythm of Stiles’ fingers in his fur.  And maybe he was already asleep and dreaming because he thought he heard, so soft even his wolf-ears could barely make it out, one more thing.

“I wish you would stay.”

* * *

Derek woke slowly.  His body felt loose and warm and content, and he stretched luxuriously.  The soft sheets slid across his skin in a cool caress, and he realized he was...naked?

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Stiles’ amused voice was right in his ear, and Derek startled fully awake, his eyes springing open as his hands scrabbled at the sheet, pulling it higher up around his waist.

Stiles was lying on the bed next to him, his shirt untucked and only half-buttoned, his long feet bare and pale below his trousers.  He was rapidly texting on his phone, but he hit one more button and then tucked the phone aside.  He turned on his side, a smirk spreading slowly across his face.

“What? —”  Derek tried to pull up memories of the day before.  He remembered the job offers and the wedding invitation, and drinking the wolfsbane whiskey.  And he remembered Stiles showing up, and more conversation, and that’s where the night got a little fuzzy.  Had he actually compared himself to a _pretzel?_

Derek inhaled, still feeling half-drunk on the heady smell of himself and sleep-warmed Stiles.  “We didn’t…?” he started.

“Oh, it was amazing,” Stiles said seriously, and Derek’s eyes widened as he heard no thump of a lie in his heartbeat.  “You were a complete and total _animal_.  You made sounds I’ve never heard a man make before.”

“I — I did?”

Stiles’ deadpan expression cracked and he started laughing, his whole body shaking with it.

“Very funny,” Derek grumbled.  “Why am I — did you take my clothes off?” he asked, eyeing Stiles suspiciously.

“No, you did that all on your own, tiger.  Or should I say ‘honey badger’?”  Stiles was still shaking with aftershocks of laughter from time to time, Derek’s disgruntled expression seeming only to egg him on.  “Right before you turned full wolf — and I can’t _believe_ you didn’t tell me you could do that — and then engaged in the most epic snuggling session I’ve ever experienced with anyone, on two _or_ four legs.”

“Oh.”  That was starting to sound a little familiar now.  Memories were always a little fuzzier, a little more impressionistic, when Derek was full wolf, but he remembered Stiles’ long deft fingers in his fur, and the satisfaction he had felt, curling up to sleep in his den with Stiles warm against his side.  “Uh.  Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Stiles said with a grin.  “I will treasure it always.”  And once again, Derek was a little disconcerted by the absence of a hiccup in his heartbeat.  “Anyway...now that I see you’re not hopelessly hungover, I’ll leave you to get ready.  We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

Stiles leaned forward incrementally, almost like he was going to drop a kiss on Derek’s forehead, but — no, he was just pushing himself upright, jumping off the bed, snagging his shoes in one hand and his phone in the other before sauntering out of the hotel room, careless of his disheveled state and the rumors he might start with the hotel staff.

Derek groaned, rolling over and pulling the other pillow over his head.  And if that had the effect of smothering himself in Stiles’ scent, well — no one else would know.


	12. The Development

Derek tried to tell himself that it didn’t mean anything.  That Stiles had just been checking up on him, as an employer would.  Well, at least as a _friend_ would.  But he didn’t have to, did he?  And he certainly didn’t have to stay the night.

Was it possible that Stiles cared for Derek a little more than Derek had realized?  Once the thought occurred it seemed to grow roots, and Derek couldn’t seem to shake it.  

It took Derek most of the morning to work up the courage to seek out Stiles in his office.  The door was half open, and as Derek stood dithering outside he heard Stiles’ voice, the unusually sharp tones carrying easily into the hallway.

“I’ll take care of it,” Stiles snapped, just as Derek knocked softly and then pushed the door open.

“Hey, Derek,” Isaac greeted, a hesitant smile on his face.  “We were just —”

“We were just going over some last-minute changes on the Willamette River construction,” Stiles interrupted, hurriedly shoving papers back into a file.  And there it was again, a brief stutter in Stiles’ heartbeat, betraying the lie.  Other people lied so fluidly and indiscriminately that Derek wouldn’t even have registered it, but Stiles...Stiles never lied to Derek.

Stiles shoved the file into Isaac’s hands.  “I’ll take care of it,” he said again, his voice strangely intense.

Isaac nodded and turned to leave, passing by where Derek was still standing right inside the door.  On pure instinct, Derek reached out, pulling the file from his hands.

“Derek, wait — just let me explain —” Stiles started, but Derek barely heard him.  His ears were ringing, his attention completely focused on the file as he flipped through page after page.

“Beacon Condominiums,” he read aloud, his voice sounding rusty and harsh even to his own ears.  “Enjoy a suburban retreat in this nature-themed residential development.”

He flipped to the site plan, feeling almost dizzy for a moment as he imagined the five massive high-rise buildings, surrounded by what looked like acres of parking asphalt, encroaching on the beauty of his beloved Preserve.

He barely registered that Stiles was ushering Isaac out of the office, shutting the door firmly behind him.  

“Derek, listen,” Stiles was saying urgently.  “I can stop it, okay?  I — I’m going to stop it.”  His heartbeat stuttered again on the words.

Derek blinked away the wash of gold over his vision, pulling back his fangs with an effort.  “I can hear it when you lie, you know.”  A few pages fluttered to the ground as he flipped through to a project summary.  “The dates of these changes go back weeks.  You’ve been hiding this from me for _weeks_.”

“It’s not —” Stiles blew out a gusty breath, running a hand through his hair.  “I didn’t want you to get upset for no reason.  I’m working on a fix, I promise you —”

Derek let the rest of the file fall to the ground, his fingertips tingling as the claws threatened to emerge.  “I think your fix was keeping this under wraps until I was gone.  Is that why you were in such a hurry to hire Isaac?  Here I’ve been hanging on, thinking you still needed me, and you probably couldn’t wait to see the last of me.”

“Derek.”  Stiles’ face was pale, his voice shaky.  “You know that’s not true.  I’m working to make this right, it’s just that Grandfather —”

“— Grandfather gets what he wants, I know,” Derek spat bitterly.  “Even if what he wants is to make you exactly the kind of man you never wanted to be.”

“Derek.”  Stiles’ face was red, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.  “He’s my _family_.  Don’t make me choose.”

Derek felt the last of the fury drain from him, leaving him feeling hollow and empty.  “You already did.”

He walked out of Stiles’ office, to the elevator.  He left the building, making his way through the crowded streets numbly, ignoring the bumps of passersby and the cacophony of street noise.  He was the worst kind of fool.  He had sold out everything he believed in, on the word of a shallow man who had never for a moment intended to deliver the pipedream he had pitched.

For once Derek ignored the greetings of the hotel staff as he made his way through the lobby of the Grand.  His belongings were packed up in mere minutes — he never had gotten around to sending for the rest of his stuff.  He wheeled his suitcase to the door, taking one last look around the room that had been his home for the past few weeks.  The scent of Stiles permeated the room, but instead of comforting Derek as it usually did, it made his stomach turn.  Derek clicked the door firmly behind him, refusing to look back.

* * *

Derek sulked around underfoot in his parents’ kitchen as a wolf for three days before Talia finally got fed up with him.

“Get dressed,” she ordered, throwing a pair of sweatpants on top of Derek’s head.  “We’re having tea.”  

Derek whined, shaking the sweatpants free and flattening his ears to his skull, hoping for a little more time to wallow.  Talia’s gaze was unrelenting, however, and finally Derek skulked to the bathroom, dragging the sweatpants behind him, and reluctantly shifted back to his human form.

A hot cup of Darjeeling was waiting for him when he sheepishly emerged, and it didn’t take much more coaxing before Talia had the whole story.

“It was all a lie,” Derek said morosely, staring down into the dregs at the bottom of his teacup.

“All of it?”  Talia’s voice was knowing.  “Derek, sweetie, you brought him to the house.  I saw how the two of you were.  Was that a lie?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Derek snapped, and then immediately felt ashamed for taking that tone of voice with his Alpha.  “Even if...if there _was_ something there, it wasn’t enough.  Not enough for him to stand up to his Grandfather.”

“People can change, darling.”  Talia’s warm palm covered the back of Derek’s hand.  “You’ve changed, since you met him.  Maybe he can change too.”

Derek hung his head, taking a deep breath before voicing the secret fear clamoring in his chest.  “What if he doesn’t want to?”

* * *

Derek’s new job was...fine.  Really, it was fine.  Sure, he had a small windowless office and a creaky chair with stuffing showing through the cracked faux leather, but he was doing good, solid work.  And his coworkers were...nice.  

Okay, maybe it was a _bit_ boring, after the dynamo that Stiles had been, to chat with Marisol about her gluten-free diet, or to listen to Hsien talk about his organic gardening techniques.  But his colleagues were nice, unproblematic people.  And if Derek missed the random texts and weird challenges Stiles used to throw at him, if he thought back with increasing fondness about how Stiles’ rambling was never boring, well...he just needed to adjust.

Two months into the new job, he thought he might have even managed it.  He only thought about Stiles a few times an hour these days, instead of every minute.  And then the invitation arrived.

The envelope stood out among the boring standard business-sized envelopes, a thick square of creamy vellum with a seal over the flap in the shape of the Starr Development logo.  Derek stared at it for a long moment, gathering his courage, before slicing through the flap and pulling out the contents.

The invitation itself was pretty standard for these events — letterpressed text cordially inviting the recipient to a groundbreaking ceremony for Starr Development’s latest project in Beacon Hills.  It was the post-it note attached to the back that caught Derek’s attention.

_He doesn’t know I’m adding this, but please come.  You won’t be disappointed. — Scott_

* * *

Derek lurked behind a tree on the periphery of the event, feeling like the worst kind of fool.  There was no reason to be torturing himself like this.  He was just starting to get over Stiles, was finally coming to terms with the horror that would be constructed on the edge of his beloved preserve.  What good would it do to be here, having it all rubbed in his face?

And yet, Derek had never gotten to know Scott well, but what he did know of the man was enough to tell him that he would never be intentionally cruel.  And so, as conflicted as Derek was, he had to know for certain.

The ceremony was small, obviously more of a photo op than an actual celebration.  There was a reception tent set up with hors d’oeuvres and champagne, waiting for the ceremony to be complete.  A few local journalists and one film crew from a San Francisco station were setting up around the podium, looking bored.  Several rows of chairs were arranged in front of the podium, and Derek recognized Stiles’ father and Melissa McCall already seated in the front row, deep in conversation with...his mom?  

Derek felt a growl leave his throat, and immediately Talia’s head snapped around to look in his direction.  He hurriedly ducked back around the tree, his thoughts racing.  His mother had not mentioned even being invited to the ceremony, let alone that she would attend.  But then again she knew what a sore subject this construction was for Derek, maybe she had been reluctant to bring it up. Stiles must have invited her as a courtesy, given her family’s long involvement in this area.

It was getting perilously close to the appointed time to start the ceremony when a dark limousine finally rolled up.  Derek snuck a glance around his tree, already feeling his heart starting to pound.  His mother was back in conversation with the Sheriff, and the journalists were clustering eagerly around the limousine.  

Stiles spilled out of the back seat of the limousine in his usual graceless manner, straightening himself up and then tugging down on the hem of his waistcoat and smoothing his jacket.  He was wearing that ridiculous red suit of his with a deep purple shirt.  It should have looked clownish and probably would have on anyone else, and yet on Stiles it just looked...devastatingly handsome.  

And then, emerging from the car right behind him was Isaac, looking flawless in his expensive charcoal suit and golden curls.  They bent their heads towards one another in conversation and Derek’s stomach swooped at how good they looked together, a matched pair.  Isaac would never wear bookish glasses, or a cardigan that was unraveling at the sleeves just because it was comfortable.  He fit right into Stiles’ life like a missing puzzle piece, and it was _Derek_ who had never really belonged — the square peg in a round hole.  

Stiles clapped Isaac on the shoulder and bounded up to the podium, standing behind it to look out across the gathered cluster of people.  The purple shirt was open at the neck, emphasizing the pale expanse of his tender throat, his moles standing out in stark relief.  The deep red of the suit seemed to burnish his wind-ruffled hair with russet highlights.  He was so beautiful that it _hurt_ to look at him, and yet Derek could not pull his eyes away.  

Derek found himself sliding into beta shift and he backed fully out of sight, closing his eyes and leaning against the tree as he pulled in a deep breath.  And that was a mistake too, because despite all the people and food and equipment, it was the familiar warm and gingery scent of Stiles that filled Derek’s lungs, carried toward him on the brisk wind.

Derek slid into a crouch, instinctively curling up around the pain in his chest, his ‘wolf ears straining toward the gentle breathing and familiar heartbeat that he had missed for so long.

“Here goes,” he heard Stiles murmur quietly before he flicked the microphone on, the wind crackling across it before Stiles adjusted the volume.  

“On behalf of Starr Development, I’d like to thank you all for attending today,” Stiles began.  “And I know the champagne is losing its bubbles the longer I stand here, so I won’t keep you too long,” he joked, and the audience laughed politely.

Derek forced himself to straighten up, the rough bark of the tree scraping against his back, grounding him as he managed to pull back his shift and peek around the tree again.  Despite the ache it caused, he couldn’t help himself from drinking in the familiar sweep of Stiles’ eyelashes, the slope of his tip-tilted nose, the animated gesturing of his long fingers.  Stiles’ gaze was raking through the assembled people, and he looked almost lost for a moment before he seemed to blink and refocus.

“I know there’s been a lot of excitement around this project in the community, and speculation about what this construction would actually entail,” Stiles continued.  “And on the part of Starr Development, there’s been a lot of different plans for this site — a changing vision of what we wanted to build, and how we wanted to go about it.”

Stiles pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly, the rasp of it scraping across the microphone.  “In the end, though, there was really no choice to be made at all.”  Stiles seemed to stand taller, pulling the microphone closer with one hand.  “Someone once told me that nature is vital, and engaging, and even _transformative_.  I’ll admit, I’ve never been particularly interested in nature before, but there are other things in my life that I’ve found to be transformative.  That have made me want to be someone a little different, maybe even a little better.  To be the person that I had hoped to be long ago, and in the rush of daily life managed to forget about.”

Stiles blinked again, refocusing on the crowd, and laughed softly.  “You’re all looking very confused, and I can understand why.  I’m rambling a bit, as I tend to do.  But what I’m trying to say, is that I’ve made promises in my life.  I’ve given my word, to — um, to people, and to this community.  And that’s important.  This land, in particular, is important, to … to our community, and that’s something to treasure.”  Stiles gaze grew intense as his voice strengthened, ringing out over the speaker system.  “That’s something to _protect_.  Something to value, so it doesn’t slip away before you know it.”

Stiles was frowning now, looking down at the surface of the podium as he restlessly tapped a familiar rhythm on the dark wood.  Finally he looked up again, his eyes focusing on the Sheriff, and he managed a half-hearted smile.  

“Anyway, I’m proud to be the one to formally announce the plans for construction on this site.  The details will be in the press packets available at the reception tent.  Isaac, if you would.”  Stiles gestured to the side of the podium, where Isaac was standing by a digital display on a stand.  At Stiles’ nod, Isaac clicked a button, and an artist’s rendering appeared on the screen.

Derek had to blink and look again, certain that he was imagining it.  Because it wasn’t the conglomerate of condominiums he had last seen.  No, this building was familiar, but from the rough sketch Stiles had drawn in the back of the limousine on the day he and Derek had first met.  

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Derek heard Stiles say over the roaring in his ears.  “I present to you the future Hale Center for Environmental Education.  The construction will be overseen by Starr Development Corporation, but the structure and the land on which it sits has been donated to Beacon County, irrevocably and in perpetuity.”  Stiles shot a grin at Isaac.  “The second-best lawyer I know made sure of it.”

Stiles’ grin went a little crooked. “I may not work at Starr Development after today — ” he said, ignoring the surprised murmur from the audience.  “ — but I couldn’t ask for a happier end to my time there than to have made this project happen.”

Stiles’ gaze found Talia’s.  “The town of Beacon Hills owes a debt of gratitude to the Hale family, and on behalf of the Stilinski family —” another surprised murmur spread through the crowd, apparently Derek had not been the only one who had missed the connection between Stiles Starr and Mieczysław Stilinski “— I can imagine no greater honor than to ensure that their legacy of caring and respect for this land and the people of Beacon Hills is carried forward for future generations to enjoy.”

The gathered people seemed to finally get over their surprise, a smattering of applause quickly growing to a clamor.

“Well, that’s it,” Stiles said as the applause finally died down.  “Please, stay and celebrate with us, and I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have about this project in the reception tent.”  With that, he hopped down from the podium, stopping to shake hands and exchange a few words with some of the people on the front row before making his way into the tent.

Derek stood for a moment, his heart pounding and his thoughts in a tumult after everything that had happened.  The urge to follow Stiles was intense, but he could already see a cluster of journalists gathered around Talia, and the thought of attracting similar attention, being questioned about his family’s history on this spot, made Derek shudder.

Derek edged around, making his way toward the limousine, thinking that he might catch Stiles on his way back to the car.  He startled when the driver’s side door opened, Scott straightening up to stand in front of Derek, looking him up and down.

“Took you long enough,” he finally said with a grin.  “Get in.”  He clicked something on the key fob in his hand and the doors unlocked.  Derek clambered into the back seat of the limousine, sitting uncertainly with his hands clasped between his knees.  He had no idea what he was going to say to Stiles when he saw him.  But it had to mean something, didn’t it, what Stiles had done?  The things that he had said?

Sooner than Derek was ready for, he heard footsteps approaching the limousine, the familiar rapid patter of Stiles’s heartbeat.  Scott got out of the car, and Derek moved to do the same when the doors clicked locked again.  Derek pulled on the handle in confusion but Scott leaned heavily against the door on his side, blocking it.

“Hey, Scotty,” Stiles said, his voice hollow.  “He didn’t come.”

Derek pulled again at the door latch, unhappy with the deception.  Scott had to know that Derek could hear everything.

“Would it have changed anything if he did?” Scott asked, and Derek froze, holding his breath in anticipation of Stiles’ answer.

“Of course not, you know that,” Stiles said impatiently.  “I just —” His voice dropped to a low mutter.  “I just thought maybe I’d see him one last time, y’know?”

Scott must have pressed another button on the key fob, because the doors clicked open again.  “Get in,” he told Stiles.  “I texted Isaac to catch a ride with my mom.  I’m taking you for curly fries.”

“Okay, but we’re definitely going to Stella’s, that new place is just —” Stiles was halfway into the limousine before he noticed Derek, flailing back in surprise.  Derek reached out and grasped his wrist, pulling him forward before he could fall out of the car, as Scott considerately closed the door behind him and leaned against it once more.

“Derek?” Stiles said, his eyes wide and searching.

“You never _said_ anything,” Derek blurted out, and that wasn’t at all what he had meant to say, and especially in such a sharp tone.

Stiles looked a little shifty for a moment, as if he was going to deny everything, before he finally met Derek’s gaze and changed tactics.  “What was I _supposed_ to say?” he finally managed.  “I didn’t even know if you liked guys, let alone if you liked _me_.  And you were my employee, and my friend.”  Stiles’ eyes were sincere, his heartbeat steady.  “I couldn’t lose that, and then suddenly I already _had_.  You gave your notice — you wanted to be with your family, and your pack, and I just...I just wanted you to be _happy_.”

“I’m not,” Derek said, the realization only fully hitting him as he said the words.  He reached out, gathering up one of Stiles’ restless hands, squeezing it tight.  “I have my pack, and my family, but I’m not happy.  Not like I was when I was with you.”

Derek saw the understanding spread across Stiles’ face, lighting his eyes.  “You would want —?”

Derek leaned in, capturing Stiles lips.  And Derek may have imagined, and wondered, and okay maybe even _dreamed_ about how it would feel to kiss Stiles, but none of his imaginings held a candle to the reality.  Stiles kissed with the intensity and focus he brought to everything, his big warm hands cradling Derek’s face as if he were something to be treasured, his mobile mouth licking and nipping playfully at Derek’s bottom lip before delving deep, a luxurious slide of tongue that sent warmth unspooling in Derek’s belly.

Finally Stiles drew back, panting breathlessly as his eyes looked intently into Derek’s.  “I know you think I’m a — a playboy,” he said, silencing Derek’s protests by pressing the pad of his thumb to Derek’s lips.  “But I act that way — I’m never serious about the people I date — because when I fall, I fall hard.  And I fell hard for you the first time I met you.  But I can be faithful, Derek, I promise.”  Stiles’ amber eyes searched Derek’s almost desperately.  “If you give me a chance you’ll never have a moment’s doubt how I feel about you.”

“I know,” Derek murmured, pulling free of Stiles’ thumb with a sharp nip to the pad of it.  “I trust you, Stiles.”

The smile that spread across Stiles’ face was incandescent, and Derek had to lean in again to taste it, pressing clinging kisses to each corner of Stiles’ mouth before working down the length of his throat with little sucking nips and bites that made Stiles laugh joyously.

“You know I’m just a poor art student now,” Stiles cautioned, his long fingers delving into Derek’s hair and pulling his head up for another kiss.  “I mean, aside from the seven-figure salary I’ve invested wisely over the past few years…” he murmured against Derek’s lips with another teasing smile.

“We’ll scrape by,” Derek said dryly, his hands busy at Stiles’ waist, pulling up waistcoast and shirt so he could press his palms to Stiles’ skin.  At some point Stiles had clambered into Derek’s lap, and he nuzzled against Derek’s throat, a soft excited sound escaping him as Derek tilted his head back to grant him full access.  Derek shivered as Stiles placed a line of biting kisses down the tendon of his neck to the hollow of his throat.  Maybe he would have Stiles mark him there — he could hold back his healing and let everyone see the imprint of Stiles’ possession on his skin.

The car rocked just a bit as Scott settled into the driver’s seat, grumbling a little at the scent of arousal thick in the car.  “Just stay dressed until we get to the hotel,” Scott griped, starting up the car and rolling out.

“No promises, Scotty.  I’ve waited a long time for this,” Stiles muttered against Derek’s skin, diving back in for another clinging kiss, soft and sweet and hot.  His fingers traced gently from Derek’s temple down over his stubbled cheekbone, his eyes glowing with warmth as he pulled back with a wicked smile.  “And now,” he said to Derek, his voice steady and serious, “I’d very much like to discuss that whole pretzel thing…”

And Derek burst into laughter, burying his face in the fragrant skin of Stiles’ neck, holding him tight as Scott groaned and rolled up the partition.


End file.
